Repercussions
by Freckles04
Summary: Bryn Cousland deals with life in post-Blight Ferelden. Both she and Alistair, her love, survived the final battle with the archdemon, but that doesn't mean their future is certain. -- Originally posted on the BioWare forums; moved here for easy reading.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: The world and characters of Dragon Age belong to BioWare, and I offer that company my deepest thanks for encouraging community creations._

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Bryn fondled the fine lace and satin of the gown she would wear on the morrow. She couldn't quite picture herself wearing it, despite having donned it earlier at Leliana's insistence. The bard had oohed and aahed, then proceeded to test out different ways for Bryn to wear her hair. Alistair had come by in the middle of Leliana's fawning, his face lighting up appreciatively. She'd expected a trademark smart comment about how she'd never be able to sneak around in full skirts, or perhaps a suggestive question about where she'd hide her daggers--but, instead, he'd simply smiled at her, his eyes shining, his visage free and open and full of hope that the future they'd fought for would actually come to pass. She wished she could be so certain.

Her lips pressed into a thin line and she let her hand fall back to her side. "Am I doing the right thing, Wynne?"

The white-haired mage chuckled from her seat near the fire. In many ways, Wynne had assumed the role of grandmother for Bryn--a darkspawn-conquering, indomitable grandmother, perhaps, but a grandmother all the same. The Fade Spirit that kept the old mage alive was waning, though. Bryn could see it in the dimming of Wynne's bright blue eyes, in the added lines across her forehead and around her mouth. It wouldn't be long before her most trusted advisor, her most trusted friend, joined the Maker. Tears pricked her eyes at the thought, and she turned her mind away.

"What do you think, my dear?" Wynne brushed the blanket draped over her lap, smoothing away the wrinkles.

"What I think…is not the same as what I feel."

The mage sighed. "It rarely is."

"We won't have children." The words tumbled past Bryn's lips faster than she'd intended, bringing with them heartache. To never know the joy of creating life… Duncan had said the Grey Wardens paid a heavy price to be what they are, and he'd barely touched on it. Tainted, her life would end in its prime. There would be no one left to carry on her legacy, or Alistair's. No, there would be Morrigan's child; not that the swamp witch would ever tell the child from whence he or she came. Bryn's heart twisted. Bitterness arose, but she wouldn't allow it to settle in her chest. Morrigan had saved them all. Her price had been steep, but Bryn couldn't fault the outcome.

Wynne pushed up from her chair, moving more slowly than she had even a few months ago, and walked across the room to lay a hand on Bryn's shoulder. "I wish my magic could help you, my dear. Perhaps I could try calling the spirit--"

"No!" Bryn spun and gripped the old mage's hand. "Promise me--promise me you won't do that, Wynne. Please. It's not worth it."

"I am a healer, child. If I could heal you of this, I would do so in an instant, without hesitation," she said, cupping Bryn's cheek with her free hand. "But it's not something that can be cured. I know this. You took the taint within you to do what needed to be done. Don't punish yourself for that action, my dear. Because of it, you saved Ferelden. All of Thedas. You deserve what happiness you can find."

One corner of Bryn's mouth quirked. "Weren't you the one telling me that love was selfish? That, as a Grey Warden, I needed to do my duty?"

"And you did it. As did Alistair. He is King, and I cannot think of a better queen for him than you."

"Even though marrying me will ensure he can never carry out his duty as King?" Bryn swallowed past the lump in her throat. Wynne had been right, that time at camp so long ago. She _was_ selfish. At the Landsmeet, she'd announced herself to be Alistair's queen--a fact he'd readily accepted, but their talk afterwards had always remained near the forefront of her mind. It was the King's duty to produce an heir. Two Grey Wardens could not have children. If she truly had the best interests of her nation at heart, if she were to do her duty first as her father bade her with his dying words, she would have backed down from her proposal right then. She should have released Alistair so he could find a more suitable wife, one who could bear him a child and prolong the Theirin bloodline. But her heart clenched at the thought of living without him. That was why she'd convinced him to do Morrigan's ritual, despite his protests. When Riordan had announced that a Grey Warden must be sacrificed to end the Blight, Alistair had glanced at her, then quickly looked away. And she'd known. Despite her insistence to the senior Warden that she would take the final blow if necessary, she'd known Alistair had no intention of letting her do so. So when Morrigan had offered her solution…

The Hero of Ferelden. _Maker._ If the people knew how weak she actually was, they'd turn on her as quickly as they had Loghain.

"Oh, child." Wynne drew Bryn into her embrace. "You and Alistair have conquered every challenge you've faced. This will be no different. There are other means by which to declare an heir."

"But the Theirin bloodline--"

"Actions speak louder than blood." Wynne drew back and looked Bryn in the eyes. "I've told both you and Alistair that you're good for each other, and I stand by that. Don't give up on yourself. Now, I must get these old bones to bed. Tomorrow will be a full day. Rest. Calm yourself. Be happy."

A smile quivered on Bryn's lips. "Thank you, Wynne."

"Anytime, my dear. Anytime."

Bryn turned back to the gown as her friend left. The jade-green fabric swam in her blurred vision. Her heart felt as though it was buried under the tons of rock that surrounded Orzammar and the Deep Roads, crushed. Her mind pulled her in one direction--duty--while her love insisted she continue with the path she'd laid before herself. Consequences be damned.

She needed to speak with Alistair. There were no lies, no half-truths between them, something they'd agreed upon after they'd visited Redcliffe for the first time and he'd revealed his parentage. Their relationship had still been new then, filled with tentative looks and flirtatious comments, but one thing they both knew, even then--they were partners. The last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden, they needed to work together or their beloved nation would fall. And that meant they had to trust each other.

Bryn threw a wool coverlet around her shoulders to protect herself against the castle's chill and slipped into the hall, heading toward the King's chambers. Not for the first time, she wondered at her impetuous decision to hold the wedding at Highever. Sentiment had played a role in the decision, no doubt; something about holding this event in her childhood home felt so right. But there were so many memories here, and the good barely outweighed the bad. She had yet to bring herself to enter the larder, for fear she'd see evidence of her parents' deaths stained into the stones. In the great hall, she could still envision Ser Gilmore's ghost bracing himself against the gates. Those were the images that floated first to her mind, but others, older ones, were starting to emerge. Practicing her skills with her parents watching proudly; sparring with Fergus as word reached them that their armies were to head south to support King Cailan; and others from her childhood, mostly ones of listening to the old sage and Mother Mallol deliver their knowledge and wisdom. She wished she'd listened harder. If she'd known her time with them was limited…

Bryn allowed herself a small grin. She still wouldn't have listened. She'd been too eager to be elsewhere, too focused on the present to pay any attention to the future or the past. And isn't that what childhood should be?

Habit kept her footsteps light and soundless, skills she'd learned from Zevran, the assassin elf, and Leliana, the Orlesian bard. She almost found it more difficult to walk normally now…and, of course, there was the added benefit of startling Alistair and laughing at him as he railed at her for catching him by surprise. Again. Of course his mock tantrums often led to other…events. The smile on Bryn's lips died as her mind was brought back to what she needed to discuss.

"I'm not going to listen to this, Eamon."

Bryn paused at the doorway to the rooms her brother had assigned to the King, automatically drawing the shadows about herself. Alistair's voice was harsh, far harsher than she'd ever heard him speak to the man who'd raised him.

"You have a duty, son." Fatigue strained Eamon's voice. Bryn poked her head around the jamb, seeking out the wizened arl. Like Wynne, his face showed more lines than it once did. All of Ferelden had seen enough pain and anguish in the last two years for everyone to be prematurely aged. Once King Alistair's regent, it had been many months since the arl been back to Castle Redcliffe. There were rumors floating about that Eamon was thinking of abdicating in favour of his brother, Teagan. Not a bad thought, Bryn believed, particularly in light of the leadership and nobility Teagan had shown during the siege of the village of Redcliffe.

"I am not your son. A fact that you made very clear during my childhood, as I recall." Alistair's reddish hair gleamed in the firelight, and she wondered if she'd ever get used to seeing him in the regular clothes of a nobleman, instead of the shining gold armor that marked him as Ferelden's King. Bryn's heart kicked in her chest, as it always did at the sight of her betrothed. He stood at the window, his back to Eamon where the older man sat at the conference table near the fire. He turned his head to level those glittering hazel eyes on the man who'd sheltered him after his mother died, his brows drawn low. Bryn recognized that look. Alistair was easy-going, popular with the people because of his laid-back nature and gentle humor, but beneath the sometimes goofy façade dwelled a warrior, a man who would always stand up for what he believed was right.

"Be that as it may, it changes nothing. You have a duty as King, as Maric's son. I had hoped that after the last time we'd spoken, you'd changed your mind."

"You think it's so terribly easy to just turn away, do you?" Alistair crossed his arms and his glare deepened. "Could you do the same? What if you'd known Isolde would produce a mage child? Would you have been able to turn off your love for her so you could marry someone else who'd give you a clear heir?"

Bryn's breath froze in her throat. Of course Eamon would be here, talking about this. A last effort before the wedding took place. As it weighed on her mind, obviously the subject of Alistair's heir--or potential lack thereof--burdened Eamon's thoughts as well. He'd never been pleased with their betrothal, and she knew he had pressured Cailan on the same matter after he and Anora had failed to produce an heir after five years. Eamon was a traditionalist, unable to see beyond the need to have Theirin blood on the throne. Maybe he was right.

"It's not the same, and you know it, Alistair. Redcliffe is important, yes, but I have no misconceptions about its place in the world. Ferelden needs the Theirin blood. You know this."

"And it has it."

"For now."

Alistair sighed, and his shoulders sagged. "Isn't that enough?"

"No." Eamon laid a hand on the table before him and studied the surface. Emotions played over his face, expressions that Alistair, with his eyes turned back to the window, didn't see. But Bryn did. She wondered if Alistair had ever had the conversation with Eamon about his mother's amulet, how the Arl had fixed it. She wondered if he knew how much he meant to Eamon. "She is the Hero of Ferelden, and no one doubts her abilities to lead your armies and this nation. But the two of you will not produce an heir. It's impossible."

"Unlikely," Alistair corrected, but without much conviction.

"Impossible. I was there when you spoke to the Orlesian Warden Commander on this. I haven't forgotten what was said."

"Nor have I."

A note of defeat crept into Alistair's voice, and Bryn laid her forehead against the doorjamb, her heart breaking. Bryn had been purposely busy elsewhere when the Orlesian Commander had visited, avoiding him and the questions they knew he'd bring. Alistair had told her little of that conversation, only that the Warden Commander had confirmed his conclusions that Grey Wardens were all but infertile.

Jaw set, the King turned to Eamon. "I won't do it. I am not Cailan."

Eamon looked at Alistair for a moment, his eyes shadowed. "No, your Majesty. You are clearly not." He rose, then paused, one hand on the back of his chair. "She is a good match for you, in everything but this. I wish…"

Alistair nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the window. Eamon continued out of the room, never seeing Bryn hidden by the door.

She let the shadows fall away and made sure her footsteps sounded on the stone as she entered the room. Alistair glanced at her, unsurprised. "I thought I saw something shadowing my door."

"You should have called the guards, then. It could have been an assassin." She crossed her arms over her chest. Her voice was strong, far stronger than she felt. Far stronger than she _was_.

"Luckily it was _my_ assassin." His brows rose as he stepped away from the window, a smile bending his lips, but his expression darkened as he took in hers. "You heard that, I assume."

"He's right." Bryn coughed as her throat clogged, and she shook her head.

"Bryn--"

"I forced you into this. I announced it to the Landsmeet. You had no choice--"

"As our dear friend Morrigan was prone to pointing out, there is always a choice, my love." He strode across the room and laid his hands on her shoulders. "I want this. I want you. Do not doubt it."

"But I--"

"Do you remember that time in camp, on the road to Redcliffe after the Landsmeet? You asked me what our future would be."

Bryn nodded.

"And what did I say?"

She took a breath. "King or no, you'd find a way to make it work."

"I was thinking more of the 'I won't let you get away' bit, but that works too." He smiled down at her, lines crinkling into place at the corners of his eyes. "Do you love me?"

"You know I do."

"It never hurts to hear you say it."

A smile curled her lips to match his. "I love you."

"That's better."

"But you can't deny that Eamon is right."

"Eamon is _not_ right." His eyes narrowed. "He knew that putting me on the throne was a risky proposition. I am a Grey Warden first. With a Blight or not, that means an early death. Even if I tried to have a child…with someone who wasn't a Grey Warden…it might not be possible. Grey Wardens are not supposed to be makers of babies, after all." His face lightened. "Killers of darkspawn, yes. Uniters of kingdoms, apparently so. Daddies? Not so much."

Bryn leaned her head against his chest and sighed as his arms closed around her, pulling her close. "I should say something to make you hate me enough that you'd be willing to put me aside."

"It could never happen. You made the mistake of listening to all of my bad jokes and even laughing at some of them, so I know what you really think." He kissed the top of her head. "Ignore Eamon. I plan to. He put me on the throne, so now he has to live with the consequences. I have a much better idea with which to occupy that brilliant mind," he murmured, a mischievous smile curling his lips. "Come to bed. Let's escape for a little while."

Bryn looked up at her husband-to-be. His eyes gleamed in the firelight, his interest plain. Once again, she thanked the Maker for him, for bringing the two of them together, for letting them remain so. She had to have faith. They'd make it work, somehow, despite everything conspiring to keep them apart. She nodded and let him lead her to the bedroom.


	2. Chapter 2

"Where is my little sister, and what have you done with her?"

Bryn turned, laughter bubbling at her brother's indignant accusation. "Fergus, you oaf."

"Well, you can't possibly be little Bryn, who had ratty pigtails and scrapes all over as she tried to follow her big brother into the sparring ring." The dark-haired man stepped into the chamber, the mid-morning sun glinting off his polished armor. Sword and shield were stowed away--no need for the arms today--but in Ferelden, where so many battles had been fought and won, both for freedom from the Orlesians and freedom from evil, wearing armor was a sign of one's willingness to sacrifice all for the nation. A proud tradition.

"No, you can't possibly be Bryn. No armor, no daggers. Your hair so fancy." He fingered a black curl draped artfully down to the nape of her neck. No prim braided coils today. Leliana had insisted on a fashionable hairstyle rather than a practical one, and Bryn had to admit, it looked nice. If Fergus had to blink so hard as he looked at her, what would Alistair think?

"Mother and Father would have loved to see this." His hand dropped to his side as his eyes met hers, no longer laughing.

Bryn sucked in a breath and ran her hands over the jade-green lace of her skirt, trying to recover her composure. She berated herself for the tears that wanted to flow. When would she be able to think of her parents without feeling the urge to cry? Would she ever? An image of the last time she'd seen them flicked through her mind--her father bleeding heavily, his life draining away, as her mother bent over him protectively, crimson staining her leather armor. She swallowed and forced the memory away. "I know. Thank you for letting us have the wedding here. It's…fitting."

"Agreed. It feels like you've come full circle, back to where you started. Only now as a Grey Warden, the Hero of Ferelden, and Queen to boot." Some of the jovial light returned to Fergus's gaze. "Father wanted you to make your mark on the world. I think you've succeeded."

"Really? I'm not sure. Perhaps I should aim for Empress of Orlais next."

"Oh ho, that would keep your new husband busy." Fergus's expression turned serious again. "He's a good man, little sister. I once told you that you'd someday find a man who could handle you, and I think you have. I should have known the only one who could would be a King."

"Well, good thing you didn't tell me that then. I might have set my sights on Cailan and ignored his brother entirely."

"I still can't believe that Maric's bastard was hidden so well for so long." Fergus shook his head. "But there's no denying he's Maric's son. From what I remember, he certainly favors his father's looks. And personality, from the tales I've heard. I'm proud to call him my King." He cleared his throat. "And my brother."

Bryn shoved a hand against his shoulder. "Stop. You'll make me cry, and I refuse to be married with puffy eyes and a red nose."

Fergus chuckled. "Right then, enough with this. Everyone's gathered in the chantry--those that will fit inside, anyway. Are you ready?"

She smoothed her hands over her gown, eyeing herself in the mirror one last time. After spending so many long months in armor, it felt odd to wear finery again. Even odder to see herself fancier than she'd been for any event in her life, even Mother's famous salons.

Doubt flittered through her mind, Eamon's protests loud in her ears, but she shoved it away. "Ready."

Fergus held out his elbow for her to grasp and escorted her through the barren halls to the castle's chantry. Apart from the occasional scorch mark scarring the stone walls, all traces of Howe's invasion had been swept away. But the sense of wrongness remained. The chantry, particularly, felt…empty, despite the dozens of people crammed into the small space. Mother Mallol had been the Highever chantry's heart, but she had died in Howe's treacherous siege of the castle. Coming back here, living at the castle again, even for so short a time, had made Bryn realize that it was no longer home to her. But had she found a new one, yet? For so long, home had been the road, the camp…and then home suddenly became wherever Alistair was. That hadn't changed, but part of her wanted her own space, a physical place she could call her own. Perhaps eventually she'd feel that way about the Denerim palace.

In the crowd, she caught glimpses of familiar faces. Wynne, of course, standing apart from the rest of the attendees as though an invisible bubble surrounded her. Even with Alistair prodding the land to offer more freedoms to the Circle, mages were a misunderstood and feared lot. Leliana wore the drakeskin armor set they'd had made after retrieving the Urn of Sacred Ashes, since she intended to race back to Orzammar once the ceremony was done. She was in charge of the Deep Roads excursion to discover more about the darkspawn, but had insisted on attending the wedding despite the disruption to her own grand adventure. Oghren's bright red hair and beard glimmered through the crowd from where he stood near the front, his arm draped across Felsi's shoulders--a very pregnant Felsi, Bryn noted. No time wasted there. Her heart panged at the thought of being pregnant, and she tore her gaze away. It fell on Zevran, the Antivan elf assassin, who, naturally, had stationed himself so he could observe the entire room. He shot her a saucy wink, one that revived her smile. The man had a way of turning bad thoughts to good, despite his wretched upbringing. Teagan and his new wife Kaitlyn stood next to Eamon and Isolde, along with the Banns of Waking Sea, West Hill, and others.

The crowd parted as she and Fergus approached, revealing Alistair waiting at the end of the aisle. His golden King's armor shone brilliantly, giving him a regal, commanding air that he was beginning to wield more comfortably. She saw the tiny changes every time they were in public together. When he'd first told her who his father was, he'd freely admitted that becoming King was akin to his worst nightmare. But after weeks in his company, Bryn had seen beyond the words to the ability beneath. She'd never doubted he'd make a wonderful King. And he proved her confidence well-placed everyday.

A wide smile stretched his lips, growing ever larger as she approached. "Maker's breath," he murmured.

"Is that a good 'Maker's breath' or a bad one?" Bryn chuckled. "I'll remind you that my big brother is here to defend me if needed."

"Like you need my help." Fergus snorted.

"Oh, it's a good one. Believe me," Alistair said, his eyes crinkling.

The priest, a woman Bryn had not yet met, interjected with a gentle cough. "Your Majesty?"

"What?" Alistair tore his eyes from Bryn. "Oh, yes. Please proceed, Revered Mother."

Young despite her title, the priest smiled at the King and spoke, her voice rising above the crowd. "Beloved friends and family, we are here today to celebrate the love bestowed upon us by the Maker, and join together two of his children: Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden, and Bryn Cousland, Grey Warden Commander and Hero of Ferelden. Under the Maker's gaze, this man and woman fought valiantly to unite Ferelden and save it from the evil darkspawn horde intent on consuming it. Through their journey together, their quest to save us all, they found in each other a partner to share each other's life. They found a love to join their hearts. They--"

Something slammed into Bryn's back, and she staggered forward, her brows drawing down in surprise. Her knees bent of their own accord, no longer able to support her. Arms encased in metal caught her as she crumpled, and she looked up to see Alistair frowning down, fear filling his face. She took a breath--and pain cascaded through her body, stealing her air. Her mouth worked, but no sound emerged.

Noise rose around her. Shouts, demands, screams. For an instant, she was in her bed again, waking as Howe's men reached the family's private quarters.

"Wynne!" Alistair's bellow brought the present back into view. Cold seeped into her, draining her strength, but she managed to lift a hand to her beloved's cheek. Red smeared across his skin. His eyes steeled as he looked down at her. "Don't you dare say goodbye. You're not going to die."

The pain abated, flowing away like water down a stream. A certainty settled over Bryn. Time would not wait for her. "I love you," she whispered, stroking her fingers over his temple.

His jaw clenched. "No. Stop. Wynne!"

Her eyes wanted to slide shut, but she forced them open, unwilling to miss her last look at the man who meant everything to her. "Do you love me?" She tried to make her mouth curve, but it didn't want to obey.

His face softened, his hardened visage crumbling. "By the Maker, you know I do. Always."

Bryn sighed, her battle to keep her eyes open lost. "Never hurts…to hear you say it."

"I love you. Bryn, do you hear me? I love you!"

The noise, the chaos, faded, and she knew only peace.


	3. Chapter 3

Wynne doubled over as she reached Alistair, breathing heavily from the effort of pushing her way through the panicked wedding guests. The guards--useless fools--had barricaded the doors, unwilling to let anyone leave lest the culprit get away, although the chances that the perpetrator was still in the chantry were about as likely as her seeing next winter. Zevran had faded from view almost instantly and Wynne assumed he had snuck out to follow whomever was responsible for this horrible act. Leliana was working with Fergus Cousland and the rest of the nobility to calm the crowd.

She placed a hand on Alistair's shoulder. "I'm here."

The tremors that wracked his body eased, but he did not look up at her. "She's gone."

Wynne sank to her knees, caring little for the blood that seeped through her robes to her skin. So much of it. She thought she'd gotten used to the sight of it, but the shock of seeing her friends' lifeblood splashed around her never faded. Nor should it. "Alistair--"

"Where were you?" he demanded, his words rough with emotion. "You could have saved her."

Tears clogged Wynne's throat at the anguish in the boy's voice. He might be King, a Grey Warden, a templar, but he would always be the young, naïve man she'd grown to love like her own son. She accepted his criticism, knowing it was his grief that spoke, and knowing, too, that nothing she could say in explanation would make it better. Her body didn't move like it once did; it was slow to obey, like she was operating it from a distance. The strength of the Fade Spirit was nearly gone, and when it left her, she would rejoin the Maker. She'd come to terms with that long ago. Perhaps even looked forward to the next chapter of her existence. But none of that mattered now. All that mattered was that she was not able to act in time. "I'm sorry."

"Go. Just…go. Leave--leave me be." Alistair gathered Bryn into his arms more tightly, heedless of the blood glistening on his armor. With a curse, he wrenched the knife from her back and tossed it aside. It clattered against the stone, a sound barely heard over the cacophony filling the small chantry.

Wynne reached out a tentative hand, brushing a bloody curl away from the young woman's cheek. She gasped, the Spirit within her flaring as it sensed…something. Bryn. Not dead--not yet, anyway. But beyond Wynne's traditional healing skills.

"Alistair." She grasped his chin, pulling his eyes to meet hers. "Never doubt that you are the king Ferelden needs. You are as much a hero as she, even though she is the one that bears that title. Tell her--tell her I have no regrets."

His brows dipped. "Wynne--"

She shifted, taking her staff from her back in one hand and laying the other against Bryn's cheek. She bade the Fade Spirit to come forth, to bring its healing energy, and it responded eagerly. The presence wrapped itself around her, encompassing her in a nimbus of warmth and light that was indescribable to those who had not experienced it themselves. Love surrounded her, nearly tangible, buoying her up, raising her healing skills to a level far beyond what she could accomplish on her own. The Spirit's voice rose in song, and Wynne's heart soared with it. This was right. This was her purpose. She knew it would be her last act, and she thanked the Maker for it.

The Spirit's song wavered, fading. A sense of apology drifted through her mind, but Wynne dismissed it. _You have nothing to be sorry for. You kept me alive when I needed it the most, and helped me serve my country and my king for far longer and far better than I'd ever dreamed. Thank you, Spirit. Thank you for everything._

Life sparked beneath her fingertips. Wynne looked down, peace flowing through her at the sight of color returning to Bryn's cheeks. She smiled as her vision faded, eager to see what the next adventure would be.

#

She was so pale. Not that she had the deepest color in the best of times--her delicate porcelain skin was only one of the things he adored about her--but now it seemed nearly lifeless. She breathed, her heart beat, all thanks to Wynne. But she had yet to open those green, green eyes. Would she? Or had Wynne's sacrifice been for naught?

Alistair pressed his lips against the cool hand enveloped in his, then laid his forehead against it. Guilt clawed at him. If he hadn't lashed out at Wynne…if he hadn't blamed her, like a fool… Grief choked his throat. Wynne had saved the woman he loved, but her actions had cost him the woman he'd come to see as a mother. Just when he thought he couldn't endure any more pain in his life, the Maker came up with a new torment. And Eamon wondered why he'd been unhappy growing up in a monastery.

At the soft tap on the door, he raised his head. Bryn's brother stood there, his face troubled. Alistair raised a hand and waved at him to enter.

"Any word, Teyrn Fergus?" He kept his voice low.

"Please, your Majesty, call me Fergus."

"Only if you drop this 'majesty' business as well."

"Done…Alistair. And no, no word yet. The Antivan returned a short time ago, and I believe he's conferring with your other companions. I expect they'll be along shortly." Fergus's dark eyes drifted to his sister's still form. "I should have had more guards. I should have been better prepared. But there'd been no indication, no suggestion that anyone was anything but happy with the wedding. With her. Damn it, I'm a fool."

"Then we all are, Fergus. None of us thought to be wary of assassination attempts. Except for Zevran," Alistair said, considering. "But he's always thinking about how best to kill people."

"She certainly made some interesting friends, didn't she?"

Alistair turned his eyes back to the woman who, by now, should have been his wife. "Yes. She sees…something…in people. The good that they don't even know is there. It's like she can sense their potential." Like she'd seen his, when he'd been so set on denying it. Or Zevran's tortured soul. Sten's bone-deep regret. Oghren's innate--though deeply buried--nobility. "Was she always like that?"

"For as long as I can remember. It was she who had suggested to Father that he squire Gilmore. I remember Father staring at her like she'd said she was Andraste reborn. It would have made just as much sense. This little bit of a girl, barely able to handle a dagger, telling the Teyrn of Highever whom he should train as a knight." Fergus chuckled, shaking his head. "Gilmore had accompanied his father to speak with the Teyrn, and Bryn followed him about like a mabari pup. He never said an unkind word to her, though, unlike most boys his age would have. Maybe it was because I was always nearby, but I think it's more likely that it was just his innate decency. It was at dinner that she announced--to the entire castle, I might add--that Gilmore should be a knight."

A smile tugged at Alistair's lips as he pictured Bryn as a young girl, her father already bowing to her whims. He'd like to say he'd be able to resist, should he have a daughter to do the same…but he knew himself too well. But that was a moot point, now, wasn't it. And no good to be done thinking about it. "Ser Gilmore? She mentioned him, I think. Wasn't he the fellow Duncan had planned to test for recruitment?"

Fergus nodded. "He would have made an excellent Grey Warden. Perhaps not as excellent as my sister, but…he would have been an asset to your order." The teyrn's eyes clouded, and Alistair looked away.

So much death. Would he ever escape it?

"Alistair? I mean, your Majesty?" Leliana's lilting voice drifted into the room. He looked up to see her standing uncertainly at the door, Zevran and Oghren with her.

"Go," Fergus said. "I'll stay with her."

Alistair hesitated, then forced his fingers to relinquish their grasp on Bryn's hand. "Send for me should anything change. Anything."

"I will." Fergus grasped the King's upper arm, a gesture that made Alistair's throat tighten. That familiar longing for family, a place to belong, rose ferociously within him. Maybe he'd found it, after all the years of searching. He returned the older man's stoic clasp and left the room.

His friends had retreated to a lounge across the hall, where their conversation wouldn't disturb Bryn. Alistair joined them, debating for a moment whether he should remain standing and be all kingly, or sink into one of the leather chairs and let the king's mantle drop for a moment. He chose the latter course of action, knowing his current company would think nothing of it. They stared at him, then at the floor, waiting for him to speak.

"She's alive. Wynne--" Alistair swallowed, then continued. "Wynne brought her back, but she hasn't awoken."

"By Andraste's tits!"

"Oghren," Leliana warned, her voice low.

"Sorry. I just can't sodding believe it. Weren't you watching for trouble, elf?" the dwarf rumbled, turning narrowed eyes on Zevran.

"Indeed I was, my stout friend. But…I was caught up in the moment." Zevran spat out an Antivan word, a curse from the tone. "I allowed myself to be distracted, and turned my attention to the ceremony rather than watch the crowd. To my everlasting regret. This is what staying in one place does to you, no? Makes you complacent."

"It's not your fault, Zev. None of us thought--" Alistair rubbed a hand over his face. "Did you find anything?"

The King's eyes were on Zevran, but it was Leliana who spoke. "It was Thomas Howe."

Alistair froze at the name. "Rendon Howe's son? Are you certain?"

Zevran shrugged. "It was easy enough to unravel his trail. I didn't know who I'd been following, however, until I found him with his throat slit, the blood around him still warm." The elf's brow drew low over his light eyes. "I'd recognize Howe's son anywhere. He has--had--the same unfortunate nose as his father."

"But who killed him? Someone else who tracked him down?" Alistair frowned. "No, if the guards had found him, he would have been captured, not left to bleed to death. So it had to have been someone he met with. Someone he'd been working with, perhaps?"

"It is a shame you enjoy your golden armor so much, your Majesty." Zevran grinned. "We might make a good rogue of you yet."

"No, thank you. I'll take my sword and shield any day over sneaking around." He sighed. "At any rate, did you learn anything else?"

"Unfortunately, my dear king, I did not," Zevran said. "Whoever killed Howe did so neatly. Nothing was left to track."

"A professional, then. Even better. Why strike now? No, stupid question--today was the perfect day for it. Let's shorten that question to just, why? Why try to kill Bryn?"

"Revenge?" the assassin suggested. "It is a popular motivation, or so I hear."

"Perhaps." Alistair considered the possibility, and couldn't discard it outright. "But I was the one who stripped the Howes of their lands, not Bryn."

"But she was the catalyst." Zevran shrugged. "It's simple and to the point."

"Too simple," Leliana said. She rose to her feet and paced silently across the room. "If you were going through the trouble of hiring a professional to clean up after your assassination attempt, why not use that professional to do the job in the first place? No, there is more at play here. Thomas Howe was a tool. A decoy, perhaps, to draw our eyes away from the real reason behind the attack."

Alistair arched a brow. "Which would be…?"

Leliana's mouth opened, then closed with a snap. "I have no idea. But I don't believe this was simply an act of vengeance. There is more to it. I can feel it."

Alistair braced his elbows against his knees, then laid his forehead in his upraised hands. He trusted Leliana's perception of the events. She'd spent many years embroiled in Orlesian politics, enjoying the twists and turns of the nobles and their devious plans. If her experience pointed her toward a certain conclusion, he wasn't about to contradict her. "So, what now?"

"Wedding, take two?" Oghren said from his post beside the door, his arms crossed over his burly chest.

"If she--" Alistair cleared his throat. "When she wakes up." His voice dropped, and he didn't care if his friends heard his whispered plea. "Please, Maker, let her wake up."


	4. Chapter 4

Leaden weights had attached themselves to Bryn's eyes, making it nearly impossible to open them. But she knew she had to. There was something important she had to do. Somewhere she had to be. She blinked and winced at the light that stabbed into her retinas. A groan escaped her lips.

"You're awake." Alistair's voice was soft, but rough, like he hadn't slept in days. Her eyelids fluttered as she struggled to focus on him. Dark circles marred the golden skin beneath his hazel eyes, eyes that were dim with weariness. "Water?"

She nodded, thankful when he braced an arm behind her back to help her sit up. She felt as capable as a day-old kitten. An image of Sten, the indefatigable Qunari warrior, flashed through her mind. What would he think of his kadan now? The water tasted like ambrosia and Bryn sucked greedily at it. Her eyes narrowed as Alistair withdrew it.

"You'll make yourself sick." He placed the cup on the table beside the bed, then lowered her gently back into the pillows. "So. Did you know the _peas_ of the Maker? Was he your bacon and your shield?"

The corners of Bryn's mouth quirked, remembering the old sister who had mangled the Chant of Light outside the chantry in Denerim. It had amused the ex-templar to no end; she'd caught him chuckling to himself for days afterward. "No. I had dreams, though…odd dreams."

"Not…?" Alarm tinged Alistair's voice and she shook her head to reassure him.

"No, not darkspawn nightmares. Thank the Maker." She'd had enough of those to last her entire existence, and she was not looking forward to their renewal--though she had a number of years before that occurred. She intertwined her fingers with his. "Wynne was there. It was so strange. I knew it was the Fade, just as I knew when we'd battled the sloth demon at the Circle. But it was peaceful. I wasn't trapped. It was like I…was a guest."

Alistair said nothing. He stared at their joined hands, his thumb stroking hers, almost reverently. How ill had she been? She'd assumed by his light, jocular greeting that everything was all right, but words were his shield. Drawing a deep breath, she continued. "Wynne bade me farewell. And…it wasn't a dream, was it?"

The King lifted his eyes to meet hers and shook his head. "No, Bryn. It wasn't."

She nodded, ignoring the wetness that seeped from her eyes. She'd known what it meant, even in the midst of sleep, but she'd prayed that Wynne would greet her when she awoke and tell her to stop being so foolish. "She saved me."

"She did. You--" Alistair looked down as the words stuck in his throat. When his eyes met hers again, some of the humor had returned. "You kill one archdemon and we all start thinking you're invulnerable. Silly us."

"Was anyone else hurt?"

He shook his head. "No. You were the target."

Bryn nodded, her throat tight.

"Don't you want to know why? Who?" Alistair frowned.

"Does it matter?" She sighed and settled more heavily into the pillows. "Someone who doesn't want me to be Queen, I'm assuming."

"It was Thomas Howe."

"Thomas…?" Bryn tried to push herself up and failed. She cursed under her breath, but remained ensconced on the bed. "So it was revenge, then?"

"Maybe." Alistair's eyes darkened. "Zevran trailed him, only to find his body and no trace of his murderer."

"He wasn't working alone."

"So it seems."

"It's a sign." The words tumbled out of Bryn's mouth, her conviction crystallizing as she spoke.

"What? Maker, don't tell me you had a vision."

"No, no visions. But I think a knife in my back on my wedding day is a pretty big sodding sign that something isn't right."

Alistair's eyes hardened. "You're alive. We can continue where we left off. A smaller ceremony this time, perhaps. Just family and friends. The masses can do without--"

"No." Bryn pulled her hand from Alistair's and clenched her fingers together. "There won't be a wedding."

The King stared at her for a moment, his eyes unreadable. Then he launched himself to his feet. "Andraste's ass there won't be!"

Bryn's heart jumped at the fury in his voice. Alistair rarely swore, and seeing him in a full-on rage was a unique event. He took a few angry steps away from the bed, one hand mussing his short hair as he turned to glare at her. "I'm not letting you give up," he said.

"I've made my decision."

"And I don't accept it."

Bryn hugged her arms to her chest, as if doing so would keep her heart from breaking. "You don't have a choice."

"There's always a choice."

"Not in this." Bryn's voice broke, and she closed her eyes. "Please, Alistair. This is for the best. You know it is."

"No." The King crossed his arms, his eyes sparking under drawn brows. "You made me do Morrigan's ritual so we would have a chance at a future together. Do you really think I would pay so high a price and let you walk away as it suited you?"

"Not so high a price. You obviously enjoyed it, or it wouldn't have been successful." Bryn's eyes widened as she heard the words leave her lips. "Alistair--"

"'Not so high a price'? Is that what you think?" His face grew cold, the fire in his eyes turning to ice. "Let's forget for a moment that I had to bed a woman I despised. Let's even forget that I had wanted only to ever be with you. You know what my life was like, growing up as a bastard. How do you think I feel, knowing I've condemned a child to that existence? Knowing that I'll never see my own child, never hold him or her, never--" He clamped his lips shut. "It was a price I agreed to. To save you, to save Ferelden, I would have agreed to much more. But don't for an instant think it doesn't weigh on my mind. Every. Day."

"I know." Bryn closed her eyes against the coldness radiating from Alistair's gaze. "I'm sorry."

"No, you don't know." He sighed, and some of the anger swamping the room drained away. "The fact remains that I did not go through that simply to balk at the first sign of trouble."

"Alistair." Bryn opened her eyes again, catching his. "We made a mistake."

The King shifted. "So I'll add it to the long list I keep in my closet and we'll move on."

"You'll move on. I'll…go to Amaranthine. Lead the Wardens, like I should have been doing."

"No."

"And how do you intend to stop me? Toss me in Fort Drakon?"

Alistair stared at her, his eyes hard. "If I have to."

Bryn raised a brow. "I broke out of there once."

"I'm less likely to underestimate you than Loghain was, don't you think?" He sighed and let his arms fall to his sides. "Look…you're tired. You're not thinking clearly. Let's drop this. We'll talk tomorrow."

"No. Don't draw this out." Breathing shouldn't hurt this much, but every intake seemed to twist her heart and lungs into unending knots. "I know you don't believe in divine signs. But how can I not? All I need to do to believe is remember Leliana's dream of the Blight and the rose from the Maker, the rose that you gave me that has never withered and died. The Maker still has his hand in this world, Alistair." She held up a palm to stall his protest. "I'm not saying the Maker is responsible for the knife in my back. But the fact that the wedding was prevented after all the uncertainty I've felt, all the worry about you not being able to fulfill your duty…. How can I not believe that it's some kind of omen that our actions weren't the right ones?"

Alistair shook his head, but his eyes were troubled. "That's reaching."

"Is it?" Bryn pressed her lips together, struggling to keep control. Tears burned her vision. Couldn't he see how her heart wanted to shatter under the stress of what she had to do? "Then just view it as the shock I needed to rip the veil from my eyes. We're done, Alistair. It's--it's the way it has to be."

The King's jaw tensed, like he was holding back a tirade. After a moment, his composure solidly in place, he spoke. "I'm going to leave now, before I say something I will regret. This is not our last conversation, Bryn." He glared at her for a moment more, then strode from the room.

"Yes, my love," she whispered. "It is."


	5. Chapter 5

Zevran lounged against the doorjamb, watching Bryn shove a selection of items into a well-worn leather pack. Her movements had been jerky at first, like her muscles hadn't wanted to respond, but as the minutes passed he could see her strength returning. Wynne's doing, no doubt, this rapid rate of recovery. The assassin's jaw tightened. For all his baiting of Wynne, Zev had respected the woman. No, more than respected her. But that wasn't important now, was it? She was gone.

Ballistan, Bryn's mabari warhound, looked up as Zev stepped into the room, then laid his head back to the floor. For a moment, the elf wondered if the outcome at the chantry would have been different had the dog been in attendance. But, a dog was a dog, and Bryn's brother had exiled the mabari to the training ring outside when Ballistan had renewed his larder-sneaking ways. The new cook was even less tolerant of the dog's antics than the previous one, or so Teyrn Fergus had said when delivering the news to his sister. She'd sighed and nodded, reluctantly acquiescing.

Bryn glanced at the door, no surprise on her face as she continued throwing unmentionables into the bag. "If you run to Alistair to tell him about this, so help me, I'll slit your throat myself."

"So bloodthirsty, my dear Warden." Zev chuckled as he settled into a nearby chair. "I have ever found that aspect of your personality appealing, but I wonder: does your fiancé know of it?"

She paused in her packing, then jerked the tie of the bag closed. "I have no fiancé."

Zev's blood chilled. His body quieted, readying itself for action. "Give me the word, Bryn."

"No! Maker's mercy, Zevran." She braced her hands on the bed on either side of the pack. "It was my decision, not his."

"I see." Zev schooled his face to betray none of the thoughts whipping through his mind. Any idiot with two eyes could see the love between the Warden and her King. That first day, when Bryn had decided to spare him after his failed assassination attempt on that lonely road, he'd seen the tentative looks she and Alistair had shared. The blossoming relationship. It hadn't prevented Zevran from tempting Bryn as much as possible--he had a reputation to uphold, after all--but he hadn't been surprised when she rebuffed him. So this development…it made no sense. "You seem well. Considering."

"I'm fine. Wynne--" Bryn gave her head a shake and turned to face him. "I'm fine."

"And leaving, so it seems. Without Alistair."

"Are you ready to go?"

"Oh, I'm to accompany you, then?" Zev raised a brow. "And what is to be my forwarding address?"

"Amaranthine. I'm returning to the Wardens. And I'd…" Bryn crossed her arms. "I'd appreciate your company."

"Then you shall have it. Give me a few moments to gather my things." Zev rose and smiled at the Warden's stern look. "I give you my word that I won't reveal your plan to Alistair, my dear."

"Fine. Be quick about it, then."

Zev inclined his head and melted from the room. He didn't stop at the doorway to his borrowed chamber, instead pausing at the entrance to Leliana's rooms. He respected the woman and her abilities, but she had a soft spot for the ex-templar. He couldn't trust her to follow his request. The dwarf, on the other hand, was loyal to the Warden above all else. He could be trusted to do as Zevran asked.

And wasn't that an odd thought.

The assassin slipped into Oghren's quarters, sticking to the shadows dancing on the wall. The burly, red-headed dwarf lounged on the rug in front of the fire with his very pregnant wife, cuddling. Cuddling. By the Maker. Zev wasn't sure if he should laugh, or scrub his eyes with the harshest soap he could find.

"My apologies for interrupting, my friend." Zevran allowed the shadows to dispense and stepped into view.

"By the Ancestors!" Oghren roared, leaping to his feet. Even without his armor and unarmed, the dwarf looked ready to brawl. And win. "Zevran--you sodding nug-lover…"

Zev held up his hands and chuckled. "Easy, my stout friend. I mean you no harm." Eyes twinkling, he cast his gaze on Oghren's wife. "And how are you this evening, Lady Felsi?"

"Just fine, Zevran," she said with a smile, rubbing her round belly. "Thank you for asking."

Oghren ran a hand through his short hair, making it stand up in all directions. The rage that made him such a formidable warrior dimmed from his gaze. "By all the sodding--you'd better have a good reason to be here, elf."

"And paying my respects to you and your lovely, beautiful wife is not enough of a reason?"

The dwarf's eyes narrowed. "If you think you can barge in here and flirt with my Felsi…"

Zevran laughed. "My dear Oghren, if I was truly flirting with your wife, she would not be your wife for much longer." He held up a hand as the dwarf took a threatening step forward. "Alas, as much as I would love to trade insults with you this evening, that is not why I am here." His smile faltered. "Bryn is leaving."

Oghren came to a halt as he eyed the elf. "Leaving? Alone?"

"I will be with her, but…not Alistair, no."

The dwarf's bushy brows drew low over his eyes. "Of all the sodding, idiotic… A lyrium-addled duster could see what's between those two. She and that sodding thunderhumper are meant for each other."

"Oghren, you have an innate way with words, my friend. Sodding thunderhumper, indeed." Hearing the King of Ferelden described in such a manner--Zevran was sure Oghren was the only person who would ever be able to refer to Alistair like that and not end up in Fort Drakon. "I have a request for you, if you will. I've given my word to our dear Warden that I would not alert the King, but…you have made no such oath."

"You want me to tell Alistair."

"_Si_, but give me a couple of hours before you do."

"You want to see my head in the sodding hangman's noose, do you?" Oghren growled.

"Alistair would do no such thing," Zevran said. "Probably. I need the time to find out what has happened."

Oghren's steely eyes settled on Zev's. "And that's all you'll use the time for, elf?"

"Oghren, you wound me." Zev kept his voice light, masking just how deeply those words scored. It was to be expected--that reputation again--but the lack of trust still needled him. "The Warden's honor is safe with me, I assure you."

"It had better be," the dwarf rumbled. "Or the wrath King Alistair can visit on your ass will be nothing compared to what I'll do to you."

Zev inclined his head, acknowledging the warning. "So noted, my friend. Worry not." Impulsively, the elf clapped a hand on the dwarf's upper arm. "Be well, Oghren."

The shorter man's jaw clenched and unclenched, then his returned Zev's arm-clasp. "And you, you sodding elf. Take care of yourself, and her, you hear me?"

"I hear you." With a final nod of his head, Zev faded from view and crept to his own rooms, where he retrieved his pack. In moments, he was back at Bryn's side, bag slung over his shoulders.

"Are you ready?" she asked, her eyes dark and troubled.

"As always, my Warden." Zev gave her a half-smile. "I am yours."


	6. Chapter 6

Amaranthine was a two day's ride from Highever. It was Zevran who had insisted on liberating the horses from Fergus's stable. Bryn had protested, mostly out of habit, but had given in quickly. She was no fool; the faster they could move, the less likely Alistair would catch up to them. They didn't get far the first day, given the length of the shadows when they set out. Just as well, Bryn thought as she crawled into the tent Zevran had thoughtfully set up for her. She was out of practice in the saddle, and her muscles weren't shy in letting her know it. Never mind the fact that she was barely off her death bed.

The second day passed uneventfully. Zevran kept up his gentle interrogation, but Bryn recognized it for what it was and evaded the questions she didn't want to answer. There were some things she just couldn't share, Grey Warden secrets she refused to reveal. Her companions had gotten a rare window inside the order and seen far more than most outsiders ever would. Or should. But, beyond that, no one but she, Alistair, and Morrigan knew about the swamp witch's ritual. True to his word, Alistair had shrugged and looked stupid when the Orlesian Wardens demanded to know how the Ferelden pair had survived. The strangers' suspicions and disapproval burned enough; Bryn couldn't bear the condemnation her companions would bestow upon her if she spoke of what had actually happened that last night in Redcliffe.

She and Alistair had never really talked about it. Bryn stared at the camp fire that second night on the road, seeing instead the roaring flames of the fireplace in her room in Arl Eamon's castle. She'd sat there, waiting, trying not to picture what was happening down the hall. Failing. So lost in thoughts had she been, she hadn't heard Alistair slip into the room, hadn't realized he was there until he'd joined her at the fire, staring silently into its depths. After a moment, she'd opened her arms, and he had let her hold him. Soundlessly. Bryn hadn't known what to say. She still didn't. Maybe they should have discussed it. Maybe it would have changed things between them. Made everything less painful.

She sighed. No, nothing would have changed. It had taken a knife in the back to wake her up.

"You are well, my Warden?" Zevran's pale eyes glittered at her from the other side of the fire, concerned. As they always were now, it seemed.

"Fine." Bryn crossed her arms, bracing them on her upraised knees.

The elf regarded her for a moment more, then nodded. "I trust your hound will provide all of the guarding we require, so I shall bid you good night. Sleep well."

Bryn continued to stare at the wavering flames as Zevran faded into the shadows. A moment later, she heard the flap on his tent move, and the rustles as he readied himself for sleep. Those noises slowly diminished as well, leaving her alone with the crackles of the fire, the soft sighs of the horses, and the sleepy sounds of the surrounding forest. Ballistan snuffled beside her in slumber. Bryn remained motionless.

Tonight. It had to be tonight. Tomorrow, they would reach Amaranthine and the opportunity would be gone. Bryn scratched Ballistan's ears, setting the mabari's foot to twitching. She gritted her teeth and began removing her armor. She stowed the pieces just inside the entrance to her tent, then straightened, clad only in a sheer shift. Before she could think too deeply about what she was about to do, she strode to Zevran's tent and crept inside, joining him beneath the bedclothes.

Enough firelight flickered through the canvas that she could see its golden sheen against his smooth skin. She let her hands roam over his torso, exploring the muscular ridges. So different from Alistair--Zevran was lithe, built for speed and lightning-quick strikes. He didn't have the King's bulk or imposing musculature, but Bryn knew he was just as deadly. More so, even.

"My dear Warden." Zevran's was calm. Amused, with a tinge of surprise. She met his eyes, finding one of his brows arched. "Not that I object to your…ministrations, but what are you doing?"

"What does it feel like?" Bryn molded herself against the assassin, her fingers continuing their journey south. Where they discovered his lack of smallclothes. Her touch faltered, her determination wavering. Zevran captured her hand in his, drawing it to his chest and holding it there firmly.

"A mistake," he whispered.

She shook her head. Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to the elf's delicately pointed ear. "Don't you want me, Zev?"

A breathy curse shot past the assassin's lips. Under the hand on his chest, she felt his heart pounding. But his words, when he spoke, were even and measured. "I have never suggested otherwise, my Warden. But I think the crux of the matter is that you do not want me. I am unsure what has prompted your lovely intrusion of my tent, but I will not be a weapon. Not like this." The elf's hands, stronger than their tapered lengths implied, pushed her back. "I would gladly follow you to the heart of the Black City. You know this. But Alistair is my friend, and I will not hurt him thus."

Bryn blinked, feeling Zev's words as keenly as a slap across the cheek, then swallowed against the lump suddenly embedded in her throat. Before she could silence it, a sob escaped, then another. A third was bubbling forth as Zevran pulled her to him--an embrace meant to protect and comfort, nothing more. That he would do so, even after her shameless attempt to use him…

Bryn gave up the fight and let the tears overwhelm her, safe in her friend's arms.

###

He might have dozed in the deep of the night, but Zevran was awake to hear the birds greet the sun, to hear the horses and Ballistan renew their acquaintance. And to hear the hoofbeats approach and stop just beyond their small camp. Footsteps grew closer, but beyond a few murmured commands, there was no other noise.

Given that brigands weren't known for their courtesies, Zevran had a fair idea who had stumbled upon the camp. He closed his eyes and clamped his lips shut against the stream of curses that wanted to spew forth. Anger rose within his chest, only to die away as quickly as it had come. He could not resent Bryn for this, for the position she'd placed him in. Something troubled her, and deeply; it colored her actions, guided her to a dark path he wanted to say he didn't understand. But he did, too well. Because of that, he knew the Warden needed to be pulled back before she did something she would truly regret.

Bryn slept on, oblivious to everything. Exhaustion, lingering from her injuries, Zev supposed, paired with the stress of the underlying issues she would not reveal. He debated waking her, but decided against it. He would speak with Alistair first, and perhaps prevent the situation from fraying further.

Or be summarily executed. Zev paused, then shrugged and continued pulling on his clothes. Ah, well. There were worse ways to go.

"Good morning, your Majesty," the elf said as he stepped beyond the flap of the tent.

Alistair crouched beside the dead fire, wearing a suit of silverite plate instead of his usual golden armor. For an instant, time melted away, depositing Zev in the old camp before that last trek to Redcliffe. He'd taken it upon himself to distract the would-be king with a joke intended to make his ears blush. The assassin blinked, and the scene righted itself.

"Where is she?" The King's voice was rough with worry and heartache, easy enough to recognize when you'd experienced it yourself.

Zev took a breath. "In my tent. Wait." He held up a hand to forestall the ex-templar's impending outburst. "I have always respected both you and the Warden, and what was between you."

Alistair's lips pressed into a thin line. "Not always," he grumbled after a moment.

The elf frowned. "It was simply advice, Alistair, which you were free to ignore. Regardless, I have never stepped between you and Bryn. You may choose to believe me, now, or not. Or you may choose to separate my head from my neck." Zev raised a brow. "Obviously I would prefer you not pursue that choice, but that's just me."

The King's armoured fingers flexed on his knees, and he pushed himself up. Zev tensed, wondering if Alistair would indeed draw his sword—but the other man simply sighed and crossed his arms. "Why is she in your tent?"

The elf shook his head, forcing his muscles to relax. "I do not know. What she intended to do when she entered—that is clear." Zev caught Alistair's gaze. "What prompted her to be there is a mystery. Though...perhaps not to you, yes?"

Shadows entered the King's eyes, not unlike those that constantly dwelled in Bryn's. Hurt swelled as Zev realized neither Warden trusted him enough to share those shadows, but it was quickly tempered with a tingle of fear. What darkness had they touched on the roof of Fort Drakon? Wynne and Morrigan had accompanied the Wardens to the end, leaving the rest of the companions to protect Denerim's gates. After the battle, the witch had disappeared without a trace. Wynne had recounted little, save to say it had been the most arduous experience of her life. And the Wardens had been silent on the topic. A chill tickled Zev's neck. The archdemon was slain, and yet it still managed to live on.

"She's sleeping," he said, grabbing his pack from beside the tent.

"She's all right, though?"

Zevran looked at the King once more. "No, she is not. And nor are you." He quickly tacked his borrowed horse, unhitched the gelding, and swung into the saddle. "I shall tell Arl Eamon that you and Bryn have business with the Wardens."

"He knows," Alistair said, his eyes on the tent.

"Excellent. I would hate to be accused of your abduction and murder when I return to Highever." Zev nudged the horse forward until he stood opposite the firepit from the King. "You must fix this, Alistair," he said, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "Ferelden needs both of you. Whole."


	7. Chapter 7

The gentle aroma woke her first, the tang of metal warmed by male skin. Bryn turned her head toward the scent, instinctively drawing in a deep breath. It meant safety. Security.

It meant Alistair.

Oh, Maker. Bryn's eyes fluttered open to see his hazel gaze looking down at her. He wore only the plain linen shirt that protected his skin from the harshness of his plate armor, and was propped up on one elbow, a hand trailing along the curve of her cheek.

"Where's Zevran?" His gaze darkened, and Bryn tried to ignore how her stomach clenched. This is what she wanted, wasn't it? That final harsh cut to free them both?

"Gone back to Highever. It's just you and me," Alistair said after a moment. "And half a dozen guards, but hopefully we'll learn to ignore them."

Bryn closed her eyes and forced herself to pull back from the King. It would be far too easy to lean into him, to steal some of that strength for herself. "Please don't try to convince me to return to Highever with you. Or go to Denerim. I need to--"

"Go to Amaranthine, I know." He brushed a loose strand of hair from her brow. "But here's the thing. I'm not willing to give you up. Maybe I'm crazy. Andraste's knickers, I probably am. Your points are all valid. Eamon's points are all valid. And I simply don't care." He drew a finger along her temple. "If you'd pulled away earlier, back before…well, I probably would have let you go. Not easily, but there was the archdemon to defeat, the armies to command, so many things to deal with that what was between you and me was almost insignificant in comparison. But now…we're alive. We're still in this world together. That's got to count for something. It's got to _mean_ something."

Guilt twisted inside Bryn. "You're right, I should have pulled away after the Landsmeet--"

He put a finger against her lips, halting her words. "Hush. That's not where I was going with this." He looked away, unwilling to meet her gaze. "I don't know why you ended up in Zev's tent. He said that nothing happened, and oddly enough, I believe him. But if you…if you truly don't love me anymore, and that's the root of this…" He closed his eyes, his lips pressed into a thin line. "I will accept it."

Her out. Her escape. Duty demanded a single course of action. Bryn's eyes burned as tears gathered. Her breath caught in her throat. Alistair waited like a man anticipating the bite of the executioner's axe across his neck: tense, resigned, hope fading with each passing second.

Oh, Father. Forgive me.

"I love you. I will always love you." Bryn placed her hand against Alistair's cheek, the roughness of the stubble scratching her palm.

The King's eyes shot open, latching onto hers instantly. He took a deep breath, then laid his hand over hers. "We can fix this," he said, his voice filled with determination. He pulled her to him, enfolding her in his steely embrace.

Bryn closed her eyes as her forehead pressed against his chest. Maker help us, she prayed.

"Eamon is going to be regent again, for a little while. You and I…" One corner of Alistair's mouth quirked up. "Well, the official line is that we have Warden business to attend to in Amaranthine."

"And the truth?"

"We need a holiday." He pressed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

"A holiday." She pulled back, staring up at him as her brow furrowed. "Are you serious?"

"I don't know about you, but all that army-raising, king-crowning, archdemon-killing and country-rebuilding took a lot out of me."

"Surviving it all," Bryn corrected.

"Right. Just surviving." Alistair let out a breath. "At any rate, you and I need some…time. To talk. To heal. To figure all of this out. It is time we paid some attention to the Wardens, but I think we can work on...everything else...at the same time."

Bryn stared at him for a little while, perplexed by the serious look on his face, an expression she rarely saw him wear. Her King was an intelligent man, well-educated, although he rarely seemed to appreciate just how smart he was. It was often easy to forget how deeply his emotions ran when he was so quick to laugh and poke fun at himself.

"All right," she said finally.

"Good. Now that that's settled…" Alistair's mouth stretched in a grin as his gaze traveled down her shift-clad form.

"I believe you mentioned you have half a dozen guards with you?" Bryn said, one brow arched.

"Nowhere close by."

"Judging by the height of the sun, I've already slept most of the day away," Bryn said, bracing a hand against his chest as he moved closer. "And you don't know where your guards are, and there's still a long way to go to Amaranthine, and…"

"Bryn," Alistair said, his mouth descending to hers, "be quiet."

#

The remainder of the trip to Amaranthine passed uneventfully. Once, Bryn and Alistair sensed a small band of darkspawn a short distance away, but when they veered in that direction to investigate, the band had disappeared. The only indication their Grey Warden senses hadn't deceived them was the lingering taint marring the farmer's field. As they watched, the crops withered and shrunk, so they knew the effect was recent and not left over from the darkspawn march across Ferelden so many months ago.

Bryn tried to school her expression so as not to alarm their escort of guards, but she saw her concern mirrored in Alistair's gaze. Killing the archdemon was supposed to have sent the darkspawn scurrying back underground, disorganized, their threat neutralized. But reports of darkspawn ambushes had begun trickling in since shortly after the Siege of Denerim, and had only increased in the months that passed.

No dreams, though. She could comfort herself with that. No dreams meant no archdemon, which meant that whatever was happening, it wasn't a new Blight. Thank the Maker.

Two days after arriving at the new headquarters of the Ferelden Grey Wardens, Bryn still couldn't bring herself to relax in the study designated for her use. She felt eyes on her every time she sat in the large leather chair behind the ornate desk. Howe's eyes. She'd accompanied her father to Amaranthine a handful of times, remaining at his side when he met here with Howe rather than risk encountering Thomas on her own. As much as Howe might have welcomed a match between the Couslands and his family, her father had never pushed her in that direction. Thomas Howe hadn't been to her liking, and it had been obvious to everyone but her would-be suitor and his father.

The room was dark, dank, and musty from months of disuse. It smelled like him, her family's murderer. Foul, dirty, like the corruption that lined the Deep Roads. Bryn braced her hands against the desk, then shoved herself away. In half a dozen strides, she was out the door and marching down the hall where she burst into a smaller study, one that smelled like a sunlit garden. Or perhaps that was just in comparison to the dreadful hole she'd just escaped.

Marcel, the Warden from Orlais who had been assigned to coordinate the clean-up at Amaranthine, jerked his blonde head up at her sudden entrance. His blue eyes narrowed slightly, then relaxed. "Commander?"

The title gave her pause. "My lady" was a generic enough salutation, one she'd been living with her entire life. "Warden", though newer, felt just as right. But, "Commander"…that was Duncan. It should have been Duncan. She took a deep breath and pushed her roiling emotions aside. She was Commander. High time she began acting like it.

"I need you to strip the study, down to the bare walls," she ordered. "Everything goes."

Surprise flickered in the Warden's light gaze, then a spark of understanding. Good. He'd heard the tale, knew of the connection between her and the former owners of Amaranthine. Less explaining for her, then. "I'll see to it immediately," he said with a slight nod.

Some of the tension riding Bryn's shoulders dissipated. "Thank you. I--" She paused. "I appreciate it. More than that, I appreciate your efforts here. I have not…been as attentive as I should have been."

The corner of Marcel's mouth twitched as he rose from the plain, honey-toned desk. He moved to the side of the room and poured a cup of tea from the service there, which he held out to Bryn.

"I daresay you've been slightly otherwise occupied," he said. "The Hero of Ferelden is in high demand, no doubt."

There had been that, of course. Requests from all over the nation for her presence--hers and Alistair's. They'd traveled almost more extensively in the months following his coronation than during that panicked time leading up to the final battle. Occasionally they'd been called upon to settle disputes over lands left bereft by death and the widespread destruction that marked the Blight's path, but mostly the people just needed reassurance that the Blight was indeed over, the danger past, and that the people responsible for its termination still lived.

But, beyond that, she'd put off thoughts of what it meant to be a Grey Warden--one of many, now that the Wardens of Orlais had been welcomed to Amaranthine, instead of just one of two. She'd never known what it meant to truly be a part of the order. She'd gotten a hint during her brief first meeting with Riordan in Howe's dungeon, when he'd so easily called her "sister". In truth, she'd kept the other Wardens at arm's length because of the mystery surrounding her survival. It was hard to see the questions in their eyes and know she could never answer them. Would never. Of everyone in the world, they knew that she should have died atop Fort Drakon. In their gazes, she saw curiosity, puzzlement--but mostly, she saw condemnation.

Regardless. Bryn sat down and steeled herself with a sip of hot tea. She couldn't let her own guilt keep her from her duty. At least, not this one.

"You have my undivided attention, Marcel," she said. "For the time being, at least. I can't guarantee how long it will last." She tossed him a smile over the rim of her cup, and the other Warden chuckled.

"Ferelden's situation is certainly…unique. I'll give you that." He poured himself some tea and resumed his seat behind the desk. "Two native Grey Wardens, and both high born." He snorted. "Not only high born, not only still recognized as such, but Maker's mercy, the ruling couple."

"Not I," Bryn pointed out. "Not yet."

Marcel's eyes darkened. "Commander, if I'd been there--"

Something Bryn had been guarding closely within her chest unfurled, just slightly, at the loyalty and respect in Marcel's voice. Trust. Once, it had been so easy to hand it out to those around her. "Thank you," she said, staring at the dark liquid in the mug. "Now." She cleared her throat and looked up. "What news have you?"

The other Warden's face brightened. "We added another Warden yesterday. A young lad from the Alienage in Denerim."

Bryn tried to focus on the good news, but she couldn't help but remember her own Joining. "Just the one?"

A shadow drifted across Marcel's expression. "Yes. There were four others--"

"Four others?" Bryn's eyes widened. "And only one out of the five made it?" Dear Maker.

"The Joinings have been…less successful than we'd hoped." Marcel toyed with the cup on the desk, turning it from side to side. "Far less successful than in Orlais."

"But why?"

"We don't know. Perhaps the Blight touched the people, changed them somehow…perhaps the mages that helped us prepare don't know the ritual as well as their predecessors who died at the Circle." Marcel raised his eyes. "Perhaps the death of the archdemon affected the darkspawn in ways we can't understand, making the Joining ritual ineffective. Or perhaps the blood taken from the archdemon atop Fort Drakon is somehow…different. We have no way of knowing." His gaze settled onto Bryn, burning with the silent accusations and distrust she'd become accustomed to seeing in other Wardens' eyes.

The trust that had tentatively bloomed in Bryn's chest withered. "I'll ask First Enchanter Irving to assign some mages to study it."

Marcel looked at her silently for a moment more, then nodded. "That would be appreciated. You should also know that we have increased the number of darkspawn parties to six from three."

Doubled. Bryn frowned. One of the first suggestions Marcel had made when he'd arrived in Ferelden all those months ago with a contingent of Orlesian Wardens was to set up patrols to roam the countryside and pick off the remaining darkspawn. That the patrols needed to be increased instead of diminished… "Has there been a spike in attacks?"

Marcel shook his head. "A steady growth. It is…troubling. I expect we'll need another half-dozen patrols added within the next month or so, at this rate."

"But--" Bryn rose from her seat, unable to sit still as her mind worked. "This shouldn't be happening. The archdemon is dead. There's nothing to organize the darkspawn. They should have retreated to the Dead Trenches months ago."

"Perhaps," Marcel began, his voice deceptively gentle, "the archdemon is not dead."

Ice settled in Bryn's veins. "It's dead."

"Commander--"

"I shoved that sword through its skull until the point jammed into the stone floor." Bryn clenched her teeth, transported back to the rooftop. The column of light that blinded her. The presence pushing at the edges of her being, fraying her soul, until suddenly it was gone, called away by the beacon in Morrigan's womb. Then the explosion of sound and fire that had flung her and her companions across the roof. A vague memory of Alistair's face hovering over hers before darkness claimed her. "It's dead," she repeated.

"And yet, you still live. So how can it be?"

The ice rippling through Bryn's body solidified. Oh. Oh, Maker. Why hadn't she considered it earlier? "I must go," she whispered, beyond the ability to care if her sudden departure would cement the Wardens' suspicions. Without thinking, she pulled the shadows to her and fled in search of Alistair.


	8. Chapter 8

"Good. Raise your shield. Higher." Alistair nodded at the recruit, impressed despite himself. This one showed potential. He'd doubted it at first glance -- a scrawny thing, she looked more like a delicately boned elf than a human -- but she'd been training with him for hours now without complaint. Sweat dripped down her face, and her shield arm trembled, but he recognized that look of determination. He'd seen it on Bryn's face often enough.

The girl--Rae, her name was--blinked hard as sweat trickled into her eyes. Her light brown hair, kept short to fit under a helm, no doubt, was plastered to her scalp. Her shield arm faltered again, and Alistair shook his head. He stepped forward and relieved her of the small wooden buckler, handing her a dagger instead.

"I can do it," she growled, swiping the dagger from his hand and tossing it, point-first, to the ground.

Alistair smiled. He'd suspected she had no idea who was training her and that display confirmed it. It felt strangely good to be anonymous again. "Your arm says differently." He bent to retrieve the dagger. "I've no doubt you're capable in a fight. Beyond capable, actually. But you need to play to your strengths. You're quick with a blade but you haven't got the muscle to front an attack and take the hits so your team doesn't have to." He held up a hand to stall her complaint. "Maybe one day, but not now. So you have a choice: acknowledge your weakness and become a better warrior for it, or choose to be stubborn and end up with your head on a darkspawn's pike." He shrugged, keeping his face nonchalant, though the thought of her face as some darkspawn's trophy turned his stomach. "Up to you, of course, but I'd go for the former, personally." He extended the dagger to her, hilt-first.

After a moment, her eyes travelling from his to the blade, she grudgingly accepted the weapon. "Fine," she ground out.

"I'm not an expert in the dual-wield style, but I can give you a few tips. Enough to get you started…" Alistair's voice drifted off as he spotted Bryn striding across the field. His heart pounded a little harder, and he wasn't sure if he should berate himself for continuing to be so affected by her or be thankful that he was. As always, her hair was braided and rolled into two prim knots at the base of her neck. There was something astoundingly sexy in being the only one who regularly saw her hair unravelled, spilling over his pillow, cascading to his chest as she rose above him--

He pushed those fantasies aside as she reached him and he saw the panic in the depths of her green eyes. His breath hitched. "What is it? What's wrong?"

She shook her head, unable or unwilling to speak. Maker's breath. Big, then.

"Claude," he called to a Warden working at the practice dummy nearby. "Can you help Rae?"

"Yes, your Majesty," the older Warden answered with a slight bow.

Rae's eyes bulged as she watched the man she now knew was the King stride away. Any other time, Alistair would have made a light comment to cover the disappointment of no longer just being another Warden, but not now.

Now, he was preoccupied with discovering why Bryn looked like she'd seen a ghost.

###

"Say something." Bryn paced in front of the fireplace of her room, wringing her hands like some fishwife whose husband was overdue at sea. She cast a glance at Alistair, where he sat in one of the plush armchairs. His head was in his hands, his elbows braced on his knees.

He sighed and looked up. "The archdemon is dead."

Bryn shook her head and took another two steps to the edge of the carpet. Turn. Twelve steps to the opposite edge. Turn. "The dragon is dead. The Old God isn't. What if--what if it's still directing the darkspawn, somehow? What if we didn't end the Blight?"

"Stop. All you're doing is getting yourself worked into a panic," Alistair said. He rose and halted her pacing with his hands on her shoulders. Gently, he turned her to face him. "And if you panic, I'll be shortly behind you, and then where will Ferelden be?"

Bryn scowled at him and squirmed in his hands. "This is no time for joking."

"You killed the archdemon. It died on the roof of Fort Drakon. The Blight ended there. I haven't sensed another archdemon, nor have I had any nightmares. Have you?"

She shook her head, then bit her lip. "But would we sense the Old God without the taint?"

Alistair pressed his lips to her forehead. "Tell that brain of yours to slow down for a moment and breathe. You trusted Morrigan. I know you did, or you wouldn't have come to me that night. You trusted what she told you--that the child would not be used to harm Ferelden. Right?"

"You didn't."

"No, I didn't. I don't." He sighed. "But I trust you. I trust in your ability to see things in people I cannot. You saw something in Morrigan that made you trust her. Believe in that."

She wanted to. Oh, she wanted to recapture that sense of tentative sisterhood she'd shared with the acerbic swamp witch…but there were too many unknowns. Too many unanswered questions.

Some hero she was. She may have doomed the nation she was credited for saving, and was only just now realizing it.

###

Bryn was no stranger to the Fade. Perhaps it was odd that a non-mage could recognize it so easily, but then, few other non-mages had spent as much time in the dream realm, aware, as had the Hero of Ferelden. When she opened her eyes to see an unfamiliar cabin, lit by a welcoming fire, she didn't panic. It held plain, rough wood furnishings--a rocking chair to the side of the blazing hearth, shrouded in shadows, a large chest beside the single door, and the bed on which Bryn lay. Warmth and the smell of herbs permeated the space, reminding Bryn of the kitchens at Highever. Cozy, comfortable...a home, if a modest one.

She pushed up from the bed, debating if she should pull the shadows to her until she could determine what was happening--then one of the shadows spoke.

"Do not be alarmed, friend."

The breath caught in Bryn's throat. "Morrigan?"

"Ah, you remember, even after all this time." The swamp witch leaned forward in the rocking chair, the planes of her face glowing in the golden light from the fire.

"Like I could forget. I--" The words died as Bryn caught sight of Morrigan's rounded belly. Jealousy rose like bile. Alistair's child grew there. Maybe with the soul of an Old God, but still...Alistair's child. The child Bryn would never be able to give him.

She wrenched her eyes away before they could betray her by filling with tears and stared at the fire instead. "Why am I here?"

"Why, indeed?" Morrigan pushed up from her seat. Even with the added burden, the mage moved gracefully. She'd traded her revealing robes for a more practical, roomy tunic.

"You're asking me?"

"'Tis your dream, is it not?"

Bryn frowned, then rubbed a hand over her eyes. "Please, Morrigan. I'm in no mood for games."

"No. I doubt I would be, either, were I you." The witch stared into the fire. "You have not had an easy go of it since we parted ways, have you?"

"I'm alive," Bryn said with a weak smile.

"Aye, you are that." Morrigan was silent for a moment, the light from the fire caressing her features like a lover's hand. "But you wonder if perhaps you should have denied me."

Her statement left no room for protest, and Bryn lacked the energy for one, at any rate. "Yes," she admitted. "Have I condemned Ferelden, Morrigan?"

The silence stretched, and Bryn began to wonder if she would awaken before the witch deigned to answer. Finally, Morrigan turned to face her. "There are...elements at work that I cannot explain."

Bryn kept her eyes carefully averted from her friend's ripe belly. "Flemeth?"

"No, she is still absent. But I do not hold out great hope that she will continue to be for long," Morrigan said. "No, there are other elements that you will discover in time. 'Tis not my place to be your guide."

"Can you explain why the darkspawn have not retreated?" The witch remained silent. Bryn ground her teeth and tried again. "Why is the Joining not working as it should? Is it because of your ritual?"

Morrigan didn't answer.

Bryn's head drooped with resignation. "I beg of you, Morrigan. Tell me I did not prolong the Blight by acquiescing to your request."

The witch's lips pressed into a thin line, and Bryn held her breath. "The Blight ended atop Fort Drakon," she said after an interminable length of time. "What is happening now...is different."

Bryn closed her eyes as relief whipped through her, followed closely by another dose of uncertainty. "Is it because of what we wrought that night at Redcliffe?"

"That I cannot say."

"Then why am I here?" Bryn rose and folded her arms over her chest. "There is no point to this!" Her eyes drifted to the bump protruding from beneath Morrigan's tunic. "Did you bring me here just so you can display...just so I can see what I will never have?"

Morrigan's hand fluttered over her stomach, and she glanced down. For an instant, her expression was laid bare--and Bryn saw love. On the face of the woman who'd mocked her devotion to Alistair, who'd claimed that love was a weakening emotion and had no place in the world. The Warden's breath caught as hope flickered anew. Perhaps all was not as dark as she'd believed, if Morrigan could learn to love.

"No, that was not my purpose." The witch met Bryn's gaze again. All traces of emotion had been swept away, replaced by her usual abrasive demeanor. "I wanted to give you a gift. A wedding gift--even though I hear the nuptials have been postponed."

"A gift?" Bryn bit her lip, unsure if she wanted any gifts Morrigan could bestow. They would likely not be free.

"A gift," the witch repeated. "You may choose to do something with it, or not. 'Tis up to you. But I recall the gifts you provided to me--Flemeth's grimoires, the mirror, and--" She broke off, her hand rubbing her belly. "And I realized that I never reciprocated."

"They weren't given with the intention of receiving anything in turn," Bryn began, but Morrigan raised a hand to silence her.

"I realize that. I...have a hard time understanding it, but I know you desired nothing in exchange. So let me give you this gift, and say I expect nothing from you--I _want_ nothing from you--in return." Her eyes softened. "You taught me so much. You gave me so much that I cannot repay. Please, let me..."

Did tears glimmer in the stoic witch's gaze? Mute, Bryn nodded.

"Thank you," Morrigan said, her voice soft. She cleared her throat. "Seek out Fiona of the Grey Wardens."

Bryn's brows drew down. "What? Why?"

"If you wish the union between yourself and Alistair to produce an heir, you will do so."

The Warden stumbled back a step, her legs colliding with the bed. Numb, she sank down. "Are you telling me--are you saying that there is a way I could--" She couldn't voice the hope.

"Seek out Fiona."

Bryn blinked, then released the flood of questions building on her tongue. "What can she do? Where is she? How will I find--"

"So many questions." Morrigan chuckled. "You will discover the answers in time." The witch's gaze turned serious again. "Now, go, my friend. I...I wish I could do more."

The room began to dissipate, like mist under the encroaching sun. "Thank you, Morrigan," Bryn whispered.

And then she was in her quarters at Amaranthine, Alistair's arm draped over her middle, his soft breaths tickling her bare shoulder. She stared at the ceiling, trying desperately to squash the hope that threatened to burst inside her chest.

"Fiona," she repeated.


	9. Chapter 9

She lay in bed for a few moments more before carefully extricating herself from Alistair's embrace, knowing that sleep was beyond her now. She pulled on a soft wool tunic and linen breeches before slipping into the hall. The corridors were quiet. Torches burned on the walls at regular intervals, but she could hear the first stirrings of servants preparing the estate for the day. Early, then, perhaps just before dawn. She snuck into the kitchen to grab a hunk of bread, reminded of her teen years. She'd done the same back then, eager to escape Highever Castle for the surrounding countryside. She couldn't count how many times she'd abandoned her studies for the day, simply to get away from her parents and tutors and pretend she was a grand adventurer.

A soft smile touched Bryn's lips. Her father had recognized her need to do more than just study, to be more than just a pretty face in a nice gown. It had been that summer of escapes that he'd introduced her to the castle's battlemaster and permitted her to train with Fergus. The familiar pang resounded in her chest and she absently rubbed a hand across her breastbone. The loss of her parents hurt less, but it still hurt.

Bryn found herself at the outdoor training ring, watching the sky lighten above the battlements. She pressed her back against the stone wall, gnawed on the day-old bread, and lost herself in thought.

"You're up early, Commander."

Bryn blinked up at Marcel, startled. A glance behind him showed the sky well-lit by the rising sun. Her joints were stiff from contact with the cold stone at her back. Lost in thought, indeed. "Good morning, Marcel. I...couldn't sleep."

Concern flickered in the other Warden's gaze. "I hope it wasn't because of the comments I made yesterday. They were unfounded. I'm just..." He shook his head. "There are so many unanswered questions."

Bryn looked down at the crust of bread in her hands. "I know." Her head whipped up again as Marcel settled beside her. This close, she could see his youth--he might have a year or two on her, but no more. He kept his blonde hair short, shorter even than Alistair's close crop. In his blue eyes, shadows dwelled, just like in her gaze, and Alistair's. In most Wardens' gazes, come to think of it. They looked directly at the darkness in the world so the rest of humanity wouldn't have to. It shouldn't be a surprise to see that darkness reflected there.

"This must be so odd for you." Marcel glanced at her, then moved his eyes to examine the battlement arching in front of them. "I've tried to imagine what it was like for you, all those months, working on your own...and I can't."

"I wasn't alone."

He shrugged. "No, I suppose not. You had your companions. But you were always separate from them, weren't you? They weren't Grey Wardens. They didn't feel the threat like you did."

"I had Alistair."

"Who had only been a Grey Warden for a limited time. Neither of you knew, really, what it was like to be part of something larger." Marcel laid his head back against the wall. "I'm still trying to figure out if you succeeded in spite of that, or because of it."

"Does it matter?" Bryn brought the bread to her mouth and tore off a chunk with perhaps more force than necessary. When would the judging stop?

"No, I suppose not. All that matters is you did succeed. Wardens do what they must, yes?" Marcel's fingers brushed against his upraised knee, picking at the fabric of his breeches. "I know something happened before the battle with the archdemon."

Bryn stiffened, the bread in her mouth turning to dust.

"What, exactly, is a mystery--to everyone but you and his Majesty, I suspect. Whatever it was, it saved your life. I hope..." Marcel chuckled softly, self-deprecatingly, and shook his head. "I hope someday you'll trust me enough to share it with me. Until that day, Commander, know that I am honored to be able to serve under your command."

She swallowed. "I--" Foolish girl, she chided as tears pricked her eyes. Some Commander she was. Some hero. "Thank you, Marcel. That...means a lot."

The other Warden pushed to his feet. "I think I'd like to celebrate this fine morning with a bit of sparring. Care to join me?" He held out a hand to help her up.

Bryn eyed it for a moment, a smile spreading across her lips. "I think I'd like that." She slapped her palm into his. His strong, warm fingers grasped her hand as she was lifted effortlessly to her feet.

A cry sprung from her lips at a sudden sharp sting. She tried to pull her hand away, but Marcel held it tightly. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

"Sorry?" Something cold raced through her veins. Her muscles didn't want to work. "What have you done?" she whispered, her mouth refusing to form the words properly.

"What I must." Regret laced his tone and deepened the shadows in his eyes. "The Wardens have questions, Bryn, and they won't be denied any longer."

"No. Alistair." Her voice was barely audible now. The sparring field diminished in her vision to just her and Marcel, who still gripped her hand. Wrenching together what was left of her strength, she screamed, "Alistair!"

Then the darkness welled up to claim her.

###

Alistair bolted upright, his heart pounding. His hand sought Bryn beside him, but he found only empty space. Cold bedclothes. Where was she?

He scrubbed a hand over his face, wishing he could remember what had awoken him. A sense of unease lingered, a twinge of panic. Which made no sense. They were at Amaranthine. They couldn't be safer than in the company of their fellow Wardens.

Right?

The worry remained with him as he dressed, prodding him to move faster. Something...wasn't right. He could feel it. Darkspawn? No, it wasn't the oily corruption of the tainted creatures he felt. Nothing quite so tangible. Just a pervasive sense of wrongness.

He stepped into the hall, beckoning to one of the guards stationed near his room. "Have you seen Bryn?" he asked. The guard stared at him blankly, and Alistair shook his head. Right--her name certainly wasn't a secret, but few people thought of her as Bryn Cousland anymore. "The Warden Commander?"

"No, your Majesty."

The King's lips pressed into a thin line as he dismissed the man. With Bryn's skill at stealth, he shouldn't be surprised that no one had seen her leave. He turned away from his guards, closing his eyes for a moment as the memory of finding her gone from Highever swamped him. When he'd returned to her room, only to find no trace of her…the pain had been nearly physical, like he'd had an arm torn off.

She wouldn't have done that again? Surely not. They had worked--were working things out. Not that they'd really spent much time speaking. It had been easier to let the tasks and duties awaiting both of them at Amaranthine pull them in separate directions, to avoid picking at the scars they both carried on their souls. Damn it. No longer. When he tracked her down, he was going to lock them both…somewhere…and they were going to talk until their voices died.

Alistair began a methodical sweep of the castle, shadowed by his guards, starting with the kitchens. He'd hoped to find her seated before the cooking hearth, enjoying a morning tea, but no. None of the cooks or servants had seen her. Next, he stopped by her study, only to find it in disarray as the remodelling crew began work for the day. Marcel's study was empty, as was the library. He even checked his own quarters, a fantasy image of Bryn lounging in his bed, ready to surprise him, playing across his mind's eye. His rooms were cold, with an unlived-in feel. At every opportunity, he asked the people he encountered if they had seen his love. None had.

The panic nipping at his heart surged anew. Maybe she'd ventured beyond the castle's walls, a brief escape. But if so, why hadn't she told anyone? Why hadn't she told him?

Alistair finally tracked Marcel down on the training grounds. The other Warden fought valiantly with a straw man, cleaving his sword against the dummy as though it was the archdemon itself. The King approached cautiously, mindful of the man's blade.

Marcel spotted him in mid-swing; he followed through, then sheathed his weapon. "Your Majesty."

"Marcel. Have you seen the Commander?"

The Warden retrieved a skin of water from the feet of the dummy and took a long swallow. The silence expanded, uncomfortably, until Alistair's ears rang with it. Finally, the other man took the skein from his lips and brushed a hand over them.

"She's gone," he said simply.

Alistair's breath left him in a rush. "What do you mean?"

"I had orders--"

The words had barely left Marcel's mouth before Alistair charged him. His fist cracked across the man's chin. As Marcel bent in shock, Alistair grasped the sword on the Warden's back. A kick sent the other man stumbling backwards, leaving his blade in the King's hand. Behind him, Alistair heard swords being unsheathed, and he knew his guards were preparing to defend him if necessary. Huh. This King thing might not be so bad.

He extended Marcel's sword to brush against the man's chin. It nicked him, and a droplet of red appeared. "What orders?" the King demanded. His voice rang throughout the sparring field, and all movement around him stopped.

To his credit, Marcel didn't look afraid, or angry. Simply…resigned. "From Weisshaupt. They want to know how the Commander survived at Fort Drakon and have grown weary of your silence. I was ordered to incapacitate her and transport her to the Anderfels for questioning."

"Incapacitate?" Alistair's vision reddened. "She is your commanding officer!"

"I take no pleasure in what I've done." Marcel's brows drew down.

Alistair's hand flexed on the hilt of the sword. "Tell me why I shouldn't shove this sword through your throat," he growled.

"You have no authority--"

"I am the King!" he roared. "You would do well to remember who you are dealing with, Marcel."

"And you would do well to remember who has power in this castle, your Majesty."

The unmistakeable sound of steel tearing through flesh resounded behind him. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed the four Orlesian Wardens that had not been assigned to darkspawn patrols battling his guards. The poor bastards never had a chance.

Alistair turned his gaze back to Marcel. "Do you want to do this, Marcel? Do you want to make me your enemy?"

The other Warden's eyes filled with regret. "You've left me no choice."

The King clenched his teeth. "Nor have you."

He thrust the sword forward, grimacing as it cut through Marcel's neck with ease. Blood fountained from the man's mouth. Alistair forced himself to see the gore, but not be affected by it. He could react later. Now…he needed to survive.

He tore the blade away, and, turning, took stock of the battle. Of the half-dozen guards who accompanied him at all times, only two remained standing. They were hopelessly outmatched, their lack of skill obvious in comparison to the four Wardens they faced. Alistair charged with a shout, a wish for his shield flitting through his mind. Then his blade struck one of the Wardens and his thoughts were consumed by battle techniques and staying alive.

The first Warden, taken by surprise, fell quickly. Alistair spun, engaging the second without pause. The second Warden's sword scored his upper arm. Alistair pushed the pain aside. Later. There would be time for it later. He dodged a thrust and leapt forward with his own, running the man through.

A blade whispered at the nape of his neck and he lunged forward, away from the attack. Another of his guards fell. Behind him, swords clanged. The King turned to see the young woman he'd trained the day before battling the third Warden. Quite handily. He didn't dwell on her assistance. With another cry, he darted forward, and dispatched the fourth Warden in a matter of moments.

Breathing heavily, he surveyed the scene. The bodies of the four Wardens, Marcel, and five of the King's guards surrounded them like some macabre bloom. Recruits hovered at the edges of the training ring, gape-mouthed and wide-eyed, but motionless. Alistair scanned the area for renewed attack, but no one dared challenge the King and his blood-bathed sword.

Now what? Alistair blinked sweat from his eyes. He'd killed fellow Wardens--though he felt no kinship with the men arranged on the ground before him. Wardens did what they must, yes, but there were lines that must be drawn and not crossed. Kidnapping Bryn, challenging the King of Ferelden…

He shook his head. The time for reflection had not arrived yet. They weren't safe.

"Come," he said shortly. The guard and Rae, the recruit, fell in step behind him. He walked quickly, his sword at the ready, toward the stables. They would retreat to Highever and send word to Denerim that the Wardens of Orlais were traitors to the crown.

And then he would travel to Weisshaupt to find Bryn. If she still lived. If she didn't--

Maker have mercy on them.


	10. Chapter 10

She did not dream. There were only moments of vague awareness, separated by darkness. In those moments, she recognized what little she saw of her surroundings, but they fell away again so easily, less real than even the imaginary tableaus of the Fade. Time had no meaning.

So accustomed was she to waking for brief moments before being dragged back into oblivion, it took some time for Bryn to realize she was aware. Fully aware, her eyes open and fixed on the ceiling above her. Candlelight flickered around the room, illuminating little and keeping much in shadows. The air chilled her nose, though the rest of her body was well-covered by a down-filled duvet. The room around her felt large, and empty. She lay still, listening for any indication that she was not alone, but heard nothing.

No guard? Excellent. She would be gone from this place--whatever it was--before anyone was the wiser.

She tried to push herself from the bed, and failed utterly. Her muscles were less responsive than even immediately following the assassination attempt. Her limbs shook with the meagre effort. Maker, what was wrong with her? How long had she been unconscious?

"You'll make yourself ill." A petite woman in a skirt and tunic swept into the room. Bryn subsided, watching her. She wore her dark hair pulled back into a bun, the temples streaked with silver. Delicate, pointed ears extended on each side, matching the porcelain-doll-like features of her face. "Get used to being abed. You won't be leaving it anytime soon."

Bryn opened her mouth to respond, but her voice stuck in her dry throat. Wordlessly, the elf helped her sit up then handed her a mug of water from the table beside the bed. The cool liquid felt good against Bryn's dusty tongue. After a couple of small sips, she handed the cup back to the elf and leaned into the pillows propped behind her.

"Where am I?" Her voice was rough with disuse, and she cleared her throat.

"Weisshaupt. You've been drugged, incapacitated, for weeks now." The elf placed the cup back on the table, then looked down at Bryn, her arms crossed. "You should have come when you were summoned."

Bryn closed her eyes, remembering the tersely worded letter that had arrived a month or so after the Siege of Denerim. "I've been busy."

A spark of humor flared in the woman's voice. "So I've heard."

Sighing, Bryn opened her eyes. "You have to realize that taking me by force was a bad idea. The King won't be pleased."

Something flickered in the other woman's gaze, an emotion Bryn struggled to identify. Anger? The elf's eyes narrowed. "I could scarcely believe it when I heard that the new King of Ferelden was a bastard and a Grey Warden as well. Who would have imagined?"

"I know Wardens are supposed to be neutral," Bryn said slowly, unsure of the origin of the woman's ire. "But the situation in Ferelden…"

"Ah, yes, the situation in Ferelden." The elf spun away from Bryn. She strode a few steps away, before turning again. "You're to thank for that, aren't you?"

"Me?" Bryn blinked at the suddenness with which the woman's anger focused on her.

"If the rumors I've heard are true--and I have no reason to doubt them--it was you who crowned Maric's bastard. After setting yourself up as his Queen, yes?" She marched forward and Bryn felt the sudden urge to flee from this slip of a woman. "You wanted power that badly, did you?"

Shock froze the breath in Bryn's throat. "I beg your pardon."

Magic crackled at the woman's fingertips. A mage. Dear Maker, she was trapped in a room with a furious mage. A mage who was raging over Maker-knew-what. The crackling intensified, and Bryn realized that the woman was waiting for an answer.

She swallowed, wondering if her next words would save her or condemn her. "I love him."

"So you shackle him to a life where he'll never know freedom?"

"Why do you care?" Bryn wanted to call the words back as soon as they left her lips, but she didn't.

The elf stared at her for a moment, the only sound the magic resonating around them. "I knew Maric," she said finally. "Being King was never a joy to him, only a burden. I wouldn't wish that life on someone who had another path they could follow."

Bryn took a breath, unsure why she felt the need to explain her decision in detail--but she did. "I may have been arbiter at the Landsmeet, but I didn't force the crown on Alistair. He wanted to be King. Ferelden _needed_ him as King. But I worried that crowning him as sole ruler would not present a strong enough position, since the bannorn knew nothing of him. However, I was believed to be Teyrna of Highever at the time, since we did not know if my brother yet lived. My family is well known and well respected. Announcing myself as his Queen cemented his claim to the throne." She paused. "Truth be told, I would have married him even if he'd been nothing more than a servant's son. Him being King or me being Queen never mattered." She sank back into the cushions, her energy spent.

The elf's eyes never strayed from Bryn, and the Warden wondered if she'd get around to using the nimbus of magic flickering at her hands. After a few moments, the crackles died away. "Rest," she ordered, her voice brusque. She turned to leave.

Bryn's mouth quirked. "After all that, do you think I might know your name?"

The elf paused at the door. "Fiona," she said simply, then disappeared.

Fiona. Bryn wanted to call after her, but her eyes drooped, and she felt herself pulled reluctantly into sleep.

###

When Bryn awoke again and shifted in bed, she was relieved to discover the debilitating weakness had disappeared. She was by no means back to normal, but she no longer felt as though any simple movement would send her tumbling back into sleep. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself from the bed and to the bathing area. By the time she finished, her legs shook and her arms trembled, and she kept upright by willpower alone, but she was relatively clean and felt human once more.

Her steps faltered as she spotted an unfamiliar figure seated beside the bed. She pressed on, though, certain that if she truly stopped, she'd fall to the floor. She refused to show that much weakness to anyone. The man glowered, the lines marking his age deepening with his scowl. A soft fuzz of grey covered his skull, a strange contrast to the rough planes of his face. His eyes seemed nearly white at first, but Bryn quickly realized they were simply the palest ice blue. He wore a full suit of armor, his black breastplate adorned with the golden griffon of the Grey Wardens. She opened her senses to him to confirm her suspicions--yes, he was a Warden. She could feel the taint coursing through him, like a river about to crest its banks. He was on the cusp of his Calling.

"I'm not entirely sure how to address you," he admitted as she approached the bed. He crossed his arms, the movement sending a scraping noise reverberating throughout the room. "Usually I would simply call you by your given name, but you haven't relinquished your claim to other titles as most of us do."

Bryn blinked. That was…not the greeting she expected. "Bryn will do," she said. She tried not to show her relief at resuming her place in bed.

"Very well. I am Jorn, Commander-in-Chief of the Grey Wardens."

Bryn nodded, unwilling to be more courteous than that.

Humor flared in the man's glacial eyes. "Not one to stand on pretense, I see. I can appreciate that. Let us get right to the point, then." He levelled that intense stare on Bryn, but she refused to let herself be affected by it. "We must know how you survived."

She shrugged, settling into bed. "Luck."

"That is not the answer."

"It's the only one you're going to get," she snapped. "You've kidnapped me. Kept me drugged. And you expect me to cooperate with you?" She narrowed her eyes.

"Not really, no." He waved a hand to someone at the door. Bryn followed his gaze to see Fiona and another mage enter the room. She frowned--the taint was present in the human male, easily detected by her Grey Warden senses, but not in Fiona. Was Fiona not a Warden? If not, why was she at Weisshaupt?

"You've met Fiona," Jorn said. "And this is Yanic."

Fiona's eyes darted from Bryn's to Jorn's, and she stepped forward. "Commander--"

Jorn held up a hand and the elf subsided, her eyes flashing. "Yanic is quite adept at discovering secrets, Bryn. It will be less painful for everyone--particularly yourself--if you stop treating us like the enemy."

Bryn's heart rate increased as Yanic withdrew a small knife from his belt and held it over his palm. The tiniest grin graced his lips. Blood magic. Dear Maker--Jorn was going to resort to using a blood mage to comb through her thoughts? She had no doubt this mage could do it--she'd seen evidence of the destruction that could be wrought on a person's mind and soul by a blood mage when she'd encountered the tortured templar, Cullen, at the mages' tower so long ago.

Once he had access to her thoughts--he would not only learn the truth, he could control her. She would become a danger, a liability, to both Ferelden and Alistair. Andraste's ashes. But if she revealed what she knew voluntarily--they could seek out Morrigan. Harm her, perhaps. Kill the child--Alistair's child. As uncertain as she was about the babe, that was a fate she could not visit upon her friend nor the child. And what would they do to Alistair?

Bryn steeled herself. She would not give up her secrets willingly.

"You _are_ the enemy," she said softly. "You've proven it more than once, now."

"Bryn, Bryn."

She gritted her teeth at the condescending tone in Jorn's voice, regretting her acquiescence to him using her given name. The man rose from the chair beside the bed and strode calmly across the room to gaze out of the window.

"You gave us no choice, don't you see?" he said over his shoulder. "You know something that could save future Wardens. The destruction of an archdemon without destroying a Warden's soul--isn't that worth sharing?"

Bryn crossed her arms. "No."

"No?" Jorn turned, his brows drawn into a deep vee. "That's rather a selfish stance, don't you think?"

"You might as well kill me." Bryn jutted out her chin and glared at the older Warden. "I won't tell you anything."

Jorn sighed. "Yes, I'm afraid you will. Yanic?"

"Commander," Fiona barked. "A word." Something passed between the elven mage and the Commander-in-Chief. His eyes narrowed, but he and the blood mage followed when she strode into the hall.

Her heart thudding in her breast, Bryn thanked the Maker for the reprieve. She cast about in her memories for any defense against blood magic and came up with little. She remembered a few lines from the Litany of Adralla, but would it even work without Wynne being with her? She repeated those snippets she recalled, praying they would be enough. She had to resist. She _would_ resist.

Her gaze snapped up as she heard movement at the door, but it was just Fiona. Alone.

"Please, child. Tell him what he wants to know." She sat on the edge of the bed, her gaze intense.

Bryn shook her head.

"He will not subsist for long. He's given me a day, no more, to convince you to tell me what you know, without the use of blood magic. After that…" Her hands clenched, the knuckles turning white. "Please. I don't want to hurt him like that."

"Hurt who? Jorn?" But that made no sense. Why would her silence hurt the Commander-in-Chief?

"No, not Jorn. Damn it." She launched herself up from the bed and began pacing. "I did not support this plan. Jorn acted without my input. Typical male hard-headedness. He wouldn't see that the way to learn what he wanted to know was through gaining your trust. We're not evil, Bryn. I swear to you."

Bryn looked down at the covers draped over her legs. "I know. Wardens do what they must."

"His Calling compels him to act. He wants to leave a legacy, you see." Fiona paused. "You've sensed the taint in him."

"In him, yes." Bryn regarded the elf for a moment. "Not in you."

"No. I no longer carry the taint…but that is a tale for another time."

Bryn forced herself to pay attention to the rest of Fiona's words, though the reason Morrigan had bade her to seek out the elven mage now was clear. No longer tainted. So it was possible--somehow--to have the taint lifted? Maker. Ruthlessly, Bryn quashed the hope that lifted her heart. It could not be so simple. Nothing ever was.

"Weisshaupt learned of the Blight in Ferelden too late to act. Jorn had wanted to be the one to destroy the archdemon, like Garahel. But then word came that the Blight was ended and the Warden who dealt the killing blow yet lived--and his obsession with discovering how grew." Fiona crossed her arms. "He won't relent. Please, for the love of the Maker, tell him."

The plea in Fiona's voice was heart-wrenching to hear. Seeing the elf with the Commander-in-Chief, Bryn would never have guessed her feelings ran so deeply. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I--I can't."

"You're protecting him, aren't you? Alistair?" Her voice softened as she spoke his name.

Bryn's heart skipped, but she held the other Warden's gaze. "No."

Fiona rose and paced away from the bed, then nodded slowly. "I see. No…you're right. You have no reason to trust me. No reason to believe that I am not consumed with this quest like Jorn." She bit her lip and stared at the floor, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Finally, she retrieved something from beneath her tunic and marched back to Bryn.

The younger woman frowned as Fiona dropped the item into her hands. An amulet, much like the one she'd rescued from Eamon's desk nearly a year ago, the only reminder Alistair had of his dead mother. This one, in fact--could be its twin.

"Alistair has one like it," Fiona stated.

Bryn turned her confused gaze back to the elf. "How do you know that?"

Fiona opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. She took a deep breath, obviously gathering herself. Bryn couldn't make sense of the woman's trepidation. "It was Maric's idea," she said finally, her voice small. "He thought that each of us having one of the amulets would give me a connection to him." The barest of smiles curved her lips. "He was right. It was all in my head, of course, but sometimes I thought I could almost touch him."

"You knew Alistair?"

Fiona shook her head, her smile turning sorrowful. "Knew him? No, not really. I wish I could have, though. He sounds like he's become quite the man. Much like his father."

"Wait. Just…wait." Bryn struggled to piece the information into some kind of pattern that made sense, but the puzzle refused to fit together. "I don't understand. You knew King Maric, and he suggested that you and Alistair have the same amulet…the only thing he has of his moth--" Bryn's eyes widened. "Oh, Maker."

"And that's why you can trust me." Fiona nodded. "I would never do anything to hurt my son."


	11. Chapter 11

Would a campfire ever stop reminding him of Bryn? Alistair stared into the flames, mesmerized by the dance, his thoughts casting back into time. How many nights had they sat at the fire, sharing stories, sharing looks? He scrubbed a hand over his face, then rose abruptly. He felt his companions' eyes on him as he marched away from the fire, but he had no urge to reassure them. There was no reassurance to be given. They'd heard nothing these past weeks--their discreet questions had been in vain. No one in the villages they'd passed could recall any processions of any size, nor did a description of Bryn rouse any memories.

It didn't mean anything. Perhaps the group they travelled in was small. Perhaps they'd disguised Bryn somehow. Perhaps they'd travelled by sea to Weisshaupt instead of over land. Damn it, he just didn't know.

He didn't even know if she was still alive.

"Alistair, my friend." Zevran's accented voice sounded softly from behind him. "You should get some rest."

The King grunted, crossing his arms and leaning against a tree. He stared into the darkness, as though it contained the answers he sought if only he could look hard enough.

"She is fine."

Alistair glanced behind him at the assassin, his eyes narrowed. "You don't know that."

"I believe it." Zevran shrugged as he stepped up beside Alistair. "They want something from her, yes? Killing her is not the way to get it." His eyes darted to the King's before turning back to the gloom. "But, my friend...what secret does she hold that would be worth threatening war with you?"

Alistair closed his eyes and tilted his head to the side, until his temple brushed the bark of the tree. A certainty settled over him. The time for secrets had passed--between him and his friends, at least. They should know of the bargain Ferelden's Grey Wardens had struck. They should know what their King had done.

"Come." He pushed away from the tree and walked back to the fire. Oghren and Leliana looked up as he and Zevran approached, their expressions subdued. Odd to see the dwarf so serious, Alistair thought, and sober. That was certainly a change from when they'd first travelled together.

"We should reach Weisshaupt tomorrow. I...have not been forthcoming about the reason why Bryn was taken."

"I assumed you did not know," Leliana said with a frown.

"Oh, I know." He sighed and sank to the ground, one knee bent with his arm resting atop it. "And you should, as well. You have been trusted friends to both of us, and this is something I probably should have shared long ago." His eyes drifted from his companions' faces to the dirt surrounding the fire pit. "Where do I begin," he muttered.

"The beginning?" Zevran suggested with a crooked grin.

"Very funny." Alistair sighed and steeled himself. "The night before we began the forced march to Denerim, Riordan asked Bryn and me to meet him to discuss the strategy for slaying the archdemon."

"There was a strategy?" Zevran subsided at the pointed look Leliana tossed his way. "I'm sorry, Alistair. Continue."

"What I am about to say...is not something many people know. Bryn and I certainly didn't." Alistair took a deep breath, then pressed on. "The reason Grey Wardens are needed to end a Blight is...because...a Grey Warden must be sacrificed to destroy the archdemon's essence."

"Sacrificed?" Oghren's rough voice reverberated above the crackling of the fire.

"The essence of the archdemon is pulled by the taint into the nearest darkspawn should the dragon be slain. The archdemon is reborn in that darkspawn. The tainted Old God is thus all but immortal. But the taint in a Grey Warden attracts the essence in much the same way."

"Holy Maker," Leliana breathed. "But the Grey Warden has a soul. The essence would not be able to take over, would it?"

"No. It wouldn't." He stared at the fire for a moment before continuing, remembering the horror that had clenched in his gut as Riordan delivered his news. "Should a Grey Warden make the killing blow on the archdemon, the essence is immediately transferred to the Grey Warden, and destroyed. Along with the Grey Warden."

"But Bryn lived." Oghren frowned, his deep brow drawing low over his eyes.

"Only because of a deal we made with Morrigan."

Shadows settled in Leliana's gaze. "Oh, Alistair."

He held up a hand to halt her words. "Morrigan knew the secret to killing the archdemon. She had been sent by Flemeth specifically to offer us a way out. We took it. _I_ took it." He stared at the fire, unwilling to meet his friends' eyes. "She spoke to Bryn first, told her about her plan. Then Bryn came to see me." He closed his eyes briefly. "Maker, this is harder than I thought."

"Take your time, Alistair." Leliana's voice was soft with understanding, but the King couldn't help but wonder how long her caring attitude would last.

It just had to be done, like ripping off a bandage stuck to a wound. "Morrigan's plan was to use a ritual to create a tainted child, a babe who could absorb the essence of the Old God at the heart of the archdemon without being harmed, and thereby spare the Warden who delivered the killing blow."

Silence greeted his words. Alistair kept his gaze firmly on the ground.

"You...slept with Morrigan?" Zevran said after a few moments. "How was she?"

"Zevran!" Leliana gasped. A slap resounded through the quiet night.

"Ow! Simple curiosity, my dear bard. Such punishment."

"It's not about the sex, Zevran," she scolded.

The Antivan was silent. When he spoke next, his voice was low. "No, it is not."

"So, lad." Oghren cleared his throat. "You're going to be a father."

Alistair rested his head in his hands. "Of a child I'll never see; that was Morrigan's price. A child that might mean the destruction of Thedas, for all I know. But Maker help me, I wouldn't choose differently, given the chance. What if none of us had survived to confront the dragon? The ritual meant that anyone could kill it and end the Blight. That's worth any deal, isn't it?"

He heard the rustling of leathers, then Leliana settled beside him, her arm embracing his shoulders. She rested her head against his upper arm. "You saved Bryn."

His breath caught in his throat, at both her acceptance and rising memories. "When Riordan told us, she didn't hesitate. You should have heard the strength in her voice when she announced she would make the killing blow. Andraste's ashes." His voice broke. "We never talked about it," he said after a moment. "It was like this great yawning chasm between us. That and the heir thing. Maker's breath. Why couldn't I have just stayed a nobody?"

"It's not who you are."

Alistair glanced at Leliana, her red hair glimmering in the golden light of the flames, a vibrant contrast to the silver of his armor. "No. I suppose it isn't, not any longer." He inhaled deeply. "So there you have it. The big, dark secret the Wardens want to know so badly."

"Why not tell them?" Zevran's voice was considering.

"What, that all you need to do to survive the death of an archedemon is to father a demon baby on a maleficar? Yes, why didn't I think of that?" Alistair scowled at the elf before answering his own question. "Because I don't know anything more about it than that. I don't know the ritual. I don't know _what_ the baby will be. And I certainly had no idea how the Wardens would react. Perhaps, in time, we would have shared it with the Wardens who had been helping us in Amaranthine. But they forced me into a course of action I never wanted. Which brings us full circle."

For the first time since being crowned King, Alistair wished he had the might of the Ferelden army at his back. But marching with a full contingent of his forces would have drawn too much attention as they crossed Nevarra and the Tevinter Imperium. Getting permission from the governments of those countries to enter with his army would have taken time they didn't have.

Eamon had wanted him to wait, to pursue the diplomatic route. Alistair had refused. Besides taking too much time, he didn't want to make his conflict with the Wardens official. Not yet. There was still the chance this could be resolved.

A small chance. If Bryn was dead, no chance.

So he'd appointed Eamon regent once more, above the older man's admonitions to wait and consider and plan. There was only one plan he was interested in, and that was doing whatever it took to get Bryn back.

His gaze travelled over his companions. "Suggestions for tomorrow?"

"I think what we discussed earlier is still the prudent course of action," Leliana said. "Oghren and I will accompany you into the keep to negotiate, while Zevran sneaks inside to find Bryn." She bit her lip. "Do you really think they'll talk?"

Alistair blew out a breath. "I don't know. Probably. If they have any sense, they won't strike down the King of Ferelden without first speaking with me." He hoped. "I just want to say...thank you. For standing with me, even after..." He pushed to his feet. "I appreciate it."

"I wouldn't be anywhere else, Alistair." Leliana's voice rang with sincerity and caring.

"Aye. If I don't stand beside my sodding King, I'm not much of a soldier, am I?" Oghren snorted, his bright red mustache fluttering.

"Sneaking into the Wardens' fortress...now that is far too much fun to pass up, yes?" Zevran walked over to the King and slapped his hand against Alistair's arm. "We'll get her back, my friend."

Alistair stared at his companions, humbled by the devotion in their expressions. Words froze in his throat. "Thank you," he managed. "I mean it."

"Now rest, your Majesty." Leliana's gaze glinted with humor as she used his title. "Long day tomorrow."

Yes, he thought. The longest of my life, no doubt.


	12. Chapter 12

Fiona didn't run off after her unbelievable revelation. She'd stayed, and they'd talked. And talked. In some ways, Bryn wished the woman _had_ disappeared for awhile--it was a lot to absorb. Alistair's mother was not only still alive, she was a mage. And an elf. And a Grey Warden. And…Bryn liked her.

"It does explain some things I'd wondered about," she mused. Fiona glanced up from the simple meal of soup and bread they shared at the table before the fire, and Bryn shrugged. "He adores magical items. Rune stones in particular. I'd always thought that odd, given his training. And the templar magic--it comes to him so easily."

"Does he…" Fiona stared at her bowl for a moment before continuing. "Does he hate mages?"

Bryn chuckled. "No, not at all. Blood mages, yes. He despises blood magic, with good reason, I think. But we had a senior enchanter with us for much of our travels. Wynne." She welcomed the surge of memories at the mention of her friend's name. The elder mage had been a constant source of comfort and love, even, in her own way. "She liked to pester him about our relationship. One of her favorite pastimes was to try to get him to blush. It was never difficult."

"What happened to her?"

Bryn rested her spoon on the edge of her bowl. "She died to save my life after the assassination attempt at the wedding. It's…a long story."

"It sounds like your life is filled with long stories."

"Just the last year or so, really. Before the Blight, I was just your average Ferelden."

"Not that average." Fiona smiled crookedly. "A teyrn's daughter who captured the eye of Duncan? There must have been something special about you, even then."

"Maybe." Bryn shrugged again and pushed away her meal. "I don't see it."

"Heroes never do." Fiona leaned back in her chair and regarded Bryn, a small smile stretching her lips.

"Yes. Well." Bryn fluttered a hand at her companion. "I just did my duty." Mostly.

The elf was silent for a moment, her expression thoughtful. "You really don't see it, do you? You think that anyone could have done what you did--that someone else would have, given the same circumstances." She chuckled, a morose sound. "My dear, I've seen enough darkness in my lifetime to know that few people would have risen to meet such horrible challenges. And yet, you did. You and Alistair. You could have run away, hidden yourselves. No one would have blamed you--you were both so new to the order, you knew nothing, really."

"We knew we had to do what we could." Bryn's voice was quiet as she remembered that talk with Flemeth in the Wilds, after Ostagar. She'd wanted to do nothing more than lie down and give up. To lose her family, then to have such an enormous burden thrust onto her back...she had felt her mind pulling away, like it was trying to escape the reality of what had occurred.

Then she'd looked into Alistair's eyes and seen the pain that dwelled there. The same agony she carried in her soul and had been there since she'd left her parents to die. She'd barely known him then, but she couldn't abandon him to navigate that maelstrom of emotion alone. So she'd stepped up, shouldered the responsibility of leading, giving him the time to figure things out.

"He must be quite the man." A knowing smile graced Fiona's lips. "He sounds a lot like his father."

"I never met King Maric," Bryn admitted. "I was a teen when he was lost at sea, and I don't recall any royal visits to Highever. My father travelled to Denerim frequently enough, though he never took me. But I've heard stories."

"Who hasn't? Maric the Savior." Fiona shook her head. "He hated that title. Hated it."

"Will you tell me about him?" Bryn asked softly.

The mage didn't answer at first. Her eyes became shadowed, a look Bryn recognized too well. Lost in memories; reliving hopes and dreams that had never come to fruition. "When I first met him," she began, "I thought he was nothing more than a puffed-up high-born, drunk on his own self-importance. That impression wasn't based on anything I observed directly, mind you; simply my own experiences with others of his type, coloring my perceptions. That, and the fact that one man could not possibly live up to the legends that surrounded him." She sighed. "I was wrong. So wrong. We'd come to Ferelden with our Commander, to venture into the Deep Roads to rescue another Warden. Maric and Loghain had successfully navigated the Roads during the rebellion, so our hope was that Loghain would agree to guide us. However, the teyrn would have none of it. Maric, on the other hand, agreed all too quickly and snuck out from beneath his friend's watch. That was my first hint that he wasn't quite what he seemed." She straightened and sighed. "This is a long story of my own. Come, your eyes are drooping again. Go lay down and I'll continue. I just hope it doesn't give you nightmares."

###

Exhaustion pulled at Bryn's body, but her mind would not quiet enough for sleep. Fiona's story had been...incredible. The horror, the heroism, the sorrow, even the love; if the truth hadn't been reflected in the mage's eyes, Bryn would have accused her of fabricating the entire thing. But she had no doubt that the events Fiona had described actually occurred. Fiona herself was proof.

Untainted. Something this odd, intelligent darkspawn--the Architect--had done had accelerated Fiona's taint to the point that she experienced her Calling, a scant year or so after joining the order. Instead of overtaking the elf completely, though, the taint had retreated and disappeared. Bryn had pressed for more information, but Fiona had little to share. The Wardens had been trying to figure out what had happened to her for over twenty years now and were no closer to discovering the secret.

Morrigan's information had been all but useless, then. Fiona might no longer carry the taint, but she had no knowledge of how it was removed. Damn it. Bryn curled on her side and clutched at the duvet draped over her, bunching it in her hands. Why had she ever trusted the swamp witch? Morrigan and her mother had done nothing but play games with them for their own gain and amusement; why should this be any different?

Bryn sighed. Losing herself to anger would accomplish nothing. With every minute that passed, she drew closer to the mental invasion of a blood mage. She couldn't allow herself to be compromised. And that meant she had to act.

She would tell Fiona. Something within her sighed as she made the decision. If anyone could understand why she had agreed to Morrigan's deal, Fiona would, she was sure of it.

Her legs shook as she stood, but she shored up her will and they strengthened. She pulled the duvet around her to guard against the chill of the slumbering castle and made her way across the room to the door. She had no idea where she was going, or how she'd find Fiona, but determination wound through her. She needed to do this before she lost her nerve.

She yanked the door open and fell back a step, a scream jolting into her throat.

"Good evening, Bryn," Jorn said. "My patience is at an end."

###

Zevran hovered near the front entrance to Weisshaupt, cloaked in shadows. Discipline kept him from shifting nervously, even though an unholy amount of adrenaline poured through him. His three companions shared words with the guards stationed at the gate, Alistair gesturing sharply, his brows drawn low over glittering eyes. Truly, the man had grown into his kingly mantle. Would wonders never cease.

Another man appeared at the entrance, garbed in unpretentious armor, and after another round of unheard discussions, Alistair and the others were led inside.

Zevran forced his stomach to unclench as his friends disappeared. Maker watch over them. He had his own job to do.

Skulking through the shadows, he let his nose guide him to the kitchen entrance. Rotting vegetables, rising bread, roasting meat--the smell was universal. He wrinkled his nose and slipped through the doorway. A cooking fire flickered in the hearth, but there was no other light and no servants. It was well after the evening meal, long enough that the last of the kitchen staff had retired in preparation for their early morning. Perfect. They couldn't have timed their entry any better than if they'd planned it.

The elf paused at the door leading to the interior hallway. He hated operating blind. Given a choice, he would have scouted the fortress for a few nights before acting, but the King would not brook any delays. Not that the assassin blamed him; in fact, he thought Alistair had shown remarkable patience in seeking out the counsel of Arl Eamon, Teyrn Fergus, and waiting for his travelling companions to join him. In his place, Zevran wasn't sure he wouldn't have stormed the docks, demanding passage from anyone who could grant it.

He glanced to his right, then his left, and, shrugging, headed right. At every door, he stopped, listened; if he heard nothing, he quietly opened it, picking the lock if necessary, and confirmed the room's contents. After a dozen rooms, he felt the first stirrings of worry. He'd yet to find any trace of Bryn: not her armor, not her weapons, nothing.

Had they been wrong all along? Perhaps she hadn't been brought to Weisshaupt, after all. Perhaps Marcel had lied…

A cool breeze stroked his cheek, tracing the simple, two-line tattoo drawn from his temple to his chin. The change in air pressure enticed him onward; such movement usually indicated a difference in temperature, which normally meant--

Ah, yes. Zevran allowed his lips to curve as he spotted the darkened doorway and the rough stone steps beyond it. Excellent. He'd found the dungeons. His muscles tensed as he tried to visualize what awaited him below. Close quarters, most likely; dungeons weren't known for being spacious, pleasant areas. Guards, without a doubt. Combined with the limited space, that would mean a fight.

Zev unlatched the sword and dagger from his back. Most excellent. He longed to show these upstart Wardens what they'd begun.

The dungeons smelled nearly as bad as the kitchens. Bodily secretions, like sweat and dung and urine, mingled with the rank odor of despair. A combination he'd lived with through his time of testing with the Crows, and one he'd hoped to never encounter again. He chose his steps carefully. The stairs had fallen into disrepair, crumbling, which left the footing less than sure. One misplaced step would announce his presence through dislodging the shale, or, Maker forbid, sending him careening to the bottom.

He waited at the base of the stairs for his eyes to adjust to the near-complete blackness. A single weak torch burned beside him, but the light did not reach into the deepest portions of the dungeon. Closing his eyes, he focused instead on sharpening his hearing. There--rough, shaky breaths. One person. No guards, then. Odd, that, but Zev didn't dwell on it.

Maker, let it be her.

He refused to give in to the urge to rush forward. Acting without thinking got foolish assassins killed, and he was anything but foolish. Most of the time. He reached up and retrieved the inadequate torch from its holder, then began the tortuous process of walking--slowly--to the cell from which the soft sounds originated. The dim circle of light preceding him revealed damp stones laden with moss and lichen; once, he caught sight of a pair of reddish eyes before the rat retreated into the dark. Then, beyond a set of iron bars, a delicate, bare foot. Another. Legs, folded haphazardly. A torso, drooping beneath arms wrenched upward by chains. Dark hair cascaded down one side of her chest; one of her customary buns had come loose, but the other remained intact. Her porcelain skin was unmarked. So, no torture? Zevran frowned, the tiny hairs at the back of his neck rising. She hadn't reacted to the approaching light. Was she unconscious, then?

He crouched to check…and stumbled backward, his renowned discipline abandoning him.

Bryn's eyes were white--pure white, no iris, no pupil. Opened wide, trembling, like she was viewing horrors he couldn't imagine. Didn't want to. Magic. Maker's blood. He cast his gaze around the cell and spotted the slight glimmer he'd missed previously--a glyph surrounded her, of a type he'd never seen before.

He spat a curse in Antivan. He couldn't help her. Damn it. If she'd simply been locked up with a guard or two or five, it wouldn't have been an issue. But magic…Maker knew what would happen to him or her should he try to free her. They might both die. No, he was absolutely useless against that kind of trap.

But he knew one person who wasn't.


	13. Chapter 13

Alistair gripped his anger, wrapping it about him like another layer of armor as he ventured further into the Wardens' stronghold. His eyes travelled over tapestries draped along the corridor depicting great battles against the darkspawn, but he didn't really see them. Once, he would have been in awe at the grandeur of Weisshaupt, at the pressure of centuries of tradition, duty, and honor that surrounded him, but no longer.

The heroic sheen with which the Wardens had once gleamed, in his eyes, had been tarnished.

Their escort let them into a large room, with empty tables arranged neatly in long rows. At the other end of the room, a table was perched perpendicular to the others and raised on a platform. A fully armored man sat on a large chair behind the table, his elbows resting casually against the smooth planks in front of him as he watched the small party's procession into the room.

The Wardens escorting them waved them to a halt before the platform. Alistair's eyes narrowed at the indignity of being made to look up at the man garbed in the traditional Warden Commander suit of plate. Games, was it? These Wardens of Weisshaupt would soon discover the naïve ex-templar had learned a thing or two about political games.

If he could keep his rage in check. Alistair sucked in a breath. As satisfying as it would be to run his sword through everyone here, that would neither help get Bryn free, nor mend fences with the Wardens after what happened in Amaranthine.

"Alistair, Grey Warden," the man intoned. The corner of his mouth quirked, though no amusement reached his cold eyes. "King of Ferelden. How interesting."

"Interesting, is it?" The King's brows drew down. "I find it interesting that you would resort to kidnapping one of your own. To threaten to start a war with Ferelden."

The man arched an eyebrow. "War? You think my actions were meant to start a war?" He tsked his tongue as he shook his head. "And this is why Wardens should not be tied to any given country. Such loyalties are, ultimately, inconvenient."

Alistair drew a breath to retort angrily, then paused as he felt a light touch on his arm. Leliana. The bard's gentle hand reminded him that he needed to harness his anger, use it, and not let it run rampant. "Perhaps. You may be right. But the fact remains that Bryn is my betrothed, and you removed her from Ferelden against her will. How can I not view that as an act of aggression?"

"And yet you come to Weisshaupt with only two companions, and no army. No elite guards, even. That is what I find interesting." The man steepled his fingers and stared at Alistair over them. His ice-blue eyes were as harsh as the mountains that surrounded the fortress.

The King inclined his head. "I will be honest. I do not wish to go to war with the Wardens, if only to honor Duncan's memory. I come before you as a fellow Warden, first, to ask that you return Bryn. However, do not doubt me," Alistair warned. "Refuse my request and I will bring the might of Ferelden's armies against you."

"I see." The man's eyes didn't leave Alistair's, and the King kept his gaze steady. Darkness brimmed there, along with the ice; this was an old Warden, one nearly ready for his Calling. His taint was more advanced than Duncan's, even, when his mentor had shared that the nightmares had begun again. Alistair wondered how the man had managed to remain in control. Sane.

Though, perhaps, he wasn't sane at all.

"I am Commander-in-Chief Jorn," he said after another moment. "I will confirm that we do indeed have the Warden Commander of Ferelden as our…guest. You know why we have brought her here, yes?"

"Yes," Alistair growled.

"Ah." A flicker of a smile. "Then you know how she survived the archdemon's death. Excellent."

"You should be aware that I have a ship awaiting us," Alistair said, keeping his voice non-threatening. "Should we not arrive as scheduled, the captain has been instructed to inform my armies to begin their march."

Jorn chuckled. "From Ferelden. We have time yet, then."

"No, not from Ferelden." Alistair kept his eyes firmly on the Commander's. "My armies are at the ready just beyond the border of the Anderfels."

The Commander's smile faltered. "You lie."

Alistair shrugged. "Keep me from my ship and you'll discover the truth for yourself."

Jorn regarded him for a moment longer, then his smile returned. "Ferelden isn't known for being a strong country, in a military sense, and with the Blight having decimated your forces--"

"It's interesting how surviving a disaster such as that--on our own--increases civic pride and the desire to serve one's nation. Not to mention that the Hero of Ferelden is something of a legend." Alistair smiled coldly. "We had no trouble in rebuilding our forces, trust me."

One of the Wardens standing beside Jorn leaned down and whispered something in the Commander's ear. He waved him away impatiently. "Your Majesty…"

Alistair ruthlessly stamped down the satisfaction that rose within him at Jorn's usage of his title.

"Your Majesty," Jorn said again, placating, "surely we can come to an arrangement?"

"Alistair."

The King turned at the distinctive voice, his heart in his throat. If Zev were here, without Bryn…

Oh, Maker, please…

"I found her," the elf said quietly.

His throat tightened. "Alive?"

"_Si._ But surrounded by magic, the likes of which I've never seen. And, my friend, you know I have seen a lot."

Alistair's lips pressed into a thin line. "Take me to her."

"Wait." Jorn rose and stepped away from the table, the plates of his armor scraping as he moved. "You may be a king, Alistair, but I am still the ruler of this fortress, and we have yet to reach an arrangement." He moved to the front of the table and leaned against it, his arms crossed over his chest. "I have no desire to fight you or your armies. But Bryn has information I need, and I will not release her until I have it." His eyes glittered. "Unless, of course, you know of someone else who can tell me what I need to know."

Alistair nodded. "Release Bryn. Let me see for myself that she is well."

"And?" Jorn prompted.

The King's eyes narrowed. "And I will share my secret."

###

Fiona couldn't suppress the chill that raced through her at the King's words. His secret. Her son's. Maker--what had Bryn and Alistair wrought?

She tried to hold onto the horror as she watched him speak with Jorn, to keep the other volatile emotions at bay, but it slipped through her fingers. He was so much like Maric. His hair was darker and much shorter, but he had his father's nose, his father's build. When the elf had entered and spoken to him so quietly she couldn't hear his words, Alistair's brows had drawn low and his expression had hardened--much like Maric's when he'd been faced with an insurmountable threat. Part of her wanted to pinch herself to see if she was in the Fade unknowingly, living a dream of twenty years ago. But no. He was here. He was really here!

And he had no idea who she was.

He hadn't even seen her, hidden as she was near the entrance to the room. She'd known, intellectually, that he wouldn't recognize her--he thought his mother human and dead, after all--but an irrational fear dwelled within her chest that he would look upon her and demand to know why she abandoned him. Why she'd let him believe he was unloved. Her arms ached from the strain of holding back, of sticking to the shadows, but this was neither the time nor the place for introductions or, Maker, explanations. Maybe there never would be a good time.

He was King. He certainly didn't need the complication the truth about his parentage would bring. Perhaps she could just speak to him, though. That wouldn't be too much to ask, would it?

Alistair and his companions turned and marched back toward the entrance, accompanied by Jorn and the other Wardens. Fiona fell into step behind them as they passed. The first stirrings of relief awoke within her chest. She'd never liked Jorn's course of action, for more reasons than just the fact that it had the potential to hurt her son. Her Commander was obsessed with the cause of Bryn's survival, and Fiona had seen what horrors obsession could produce first-hand. She was spared the darkspawn dreams the rest of the Grey Wardens suffered, but that wasn't to say she didn't dream of them; or, more specifically, of that foray into the Deep Roads twenty years ago.

The lightness in her chest flickered and died as Jorn led the party away from the stairs that would lead to the upper chambers, to Bryn's quarters, and toward the dank lower level instead. Son of a-- She held her tongue, though. She'd wait to see what Jorn had done. Then she would act.

The dungeons. Maker, she hated them. At the stench, the oppressive dampness, memories poked at the edge of her consciousness, demanding acknowledgement. She refused. The past had no hold over her, not anymore.

A hand flew to her mouth as they approached the last cell. A glistening red mark surrounded the young woman as she slumped on the floor, her arms wrenched above her head. Her blank eyes stared at nothing.

Jorn had lied. He'd told her she had a day to learn Bryn's secret, and gave her only hours instead.

"Bryn!" Fiona's heart twisted at the anguish in Alistair's voice. He stepped forward, but his elven companion's hand on his arm halted his progress. He glanced down at the blonde elf, who gave a slight shake of his head.

"A trap, Alistair," he murmured.

The King turned his attention to Jorn. "Release her. Immediately."

"No." The Commander-in-Chief crossed his arms over his chest and met Alistair's furious stare with his own icy gaze. "Reveal what you know, and I will do so."

Alistair's jaw tightened. "I can cleanse all of the magic in this room."

"But not before I toss a knife into her throat." Jorn produced a throwing blade and hefted in his hand casually.

Fiona tensed. She saw something in Jorn's expression she recognized after being under his command for twenty years: resolution. He had chosen his course of action, and he would follow through. Her breath caught in her throat. Even if Alistair revealed the truth--whatever it was--Bryn would die. Insubordination, which Bryn and Alistair had committed more than once, would not be tolerated. And perhaps this was revenge for the deaths at Amaranthine.

For all his seeming acquiescence earlier, Jorn would indeed risk war with Ferelden. All for a secret that would help no one for another four hundred years?

Fiona gritted her teeth. No. He went too far.

She called forth a blast of frigid air, aiming it so it caught Jorn and the other Wardens but left Alistair and his companions free. The Commander-in-Chief froze in place, but it would not last long.

"Cleanse the area!" she shouted at Alistair.

The King glanced at her, but didn't hesitate. A force like a cool spring breeze swept out from him, washing away the glyph surrounding Bryn. Instantly, her eyes closed and her trembling stopped. The red-haired woman at Alistair's side darted forward and made quick work of the locked chains.

The ice covering the other Wardens cracked. "Hurry," she said, running through her other spells. Ah, yes. That one would be helpful. "Get to the stairs!"

She began channelling the spell, praying she could launch it before the Wardens freed themselves, and hoping the delay in casting it would give Alistair enough time to get out of the room. With a triumphant shout, she swept her hands outward, like she was throwing the spell at her opponents. Instantly a blizzard filled the space; howling winds, glacial temperatures, and treacherous footing all combined to pin the Wardens in place.

Fiona turned and pushed through the winds, only to find herself flat on the floor, shivering. Damn it. Her thin mage robes did little to protect her. It didn't matter--Alistair and the others would escape. That's what was important.

An arm wrapped around her and lifted. She struggled, thinking it was Jorn or one of his men. But then she saw the silver of his armor, so unlike the Commander's black plate.

Alistair. He'd come back for her.

"You had to cast Blizzard," he fumed over the wind. "Maker, I hate this spell."

"Would you p-prefer Fireball?" she said, her teeth chattering.

"Maybe later." They'd reached the stairs. Alistair set Fiona on her feet, then retrieved Bryn from the blond elf's arms. He glanced down at his betrothed, and Fiona's chest clenched at the worry in his expression. When his eyes met hers again, they were hard, but not unkind. "We could use a mage's help to get out of here."

"I agree," Fiona said.

Alistair's eyes flicked to the darkness behind her. "You won't be able to come back."

No, she wouldn't, would she? She hadn't really let herself consider that when she'd acted in the dungeons, though at the back of her mind she'd known what her actions would mean. Really, her loyalties had shifted when she'd stood up for Bryn against Jorn and Yanic. There was no going back now.

"I hear the Ferelden Wardens have some openings." She shrugged. "I kind of miss the smell of wet dog."


	14. Chapter 14

Bryn's dreams were filled with fighting.

Swords flashed beneath a brilliant, snow-white moon, almost like they glowed with power. They clashed against other weapons, a sound she was too familiar with. It called to her, begged her to join the fight, but her body would not respond.

Magic brushed against her and she recoiled, remembering. But the memory flowed past without her really being able to grasp it. Something exploded nearby, and a wave of heat surrounded her. Strange how good it felt. She was cold, so cold, and she felt as though she'd never be warm again.

Alistair's voice. Shouting commands. Some of the cold permeating her soul began to dissipate. Oghren's rumble; Zevran's joy-filled laugh; Leliana's uplifting bardic song. The sounds and the visions faded, even though Bryn tried to hold onto them. Even if it was only a dream, it was one in which she wanted to remain a little longer. Just a little longer with her friends, with her love...

Blackness misted up around her, washing away the sounds of battle. Not a restful darkness, though. Something dwelled within it, unseen. She could feel it, like a tickle at the edge of her mind. Waiting. Watching. Knowing.

Lightning flashed. Sickly green. And it was there. Screaming at her. Its maw opened wide like it wanted to devour her. Its huge black eyes drawing her in. Its roar shattering her ears.

The archdemon.

"No!" She jolted forward, kicking at the restraints that held her in place.

"Bryn, love. I'm here."

She blinked at the voice. Alistair? Here? But, the archdemon... She pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes, as though the pressure would help scrub the vision from her mind. An arm draped itself across her bent shoulders. His warmth seeped into her, chasing away the cold. Finally.

But her mind still felt unwieldy. "Are you a dream?" she whispered. Her tongue slurred the words.

"No, I'm no dream, my love."

She looked up and focused on him. It took more effort than it should have. "Why?"

He frowned. "Why what?"

She shook her head, unable to push the reason for her question from her confused mind to her inarticulate tongue.

"Do you remember anything?" He helped her lean back and sink into soft pillows. Belatedly, she realized that the restraints that held her legs in place were nothing more than tangled bedsheets.

Disjointed images flowed through her mind, nothing that made sense. Defeated, she closed her eyes.

"Rest some more. Everything will be all right." Alistair shifted, as if to leave.

Panic jerked through her. Her hand shot out and grabbed his arm. "Don't leave me alone," she pleaded.

"Never." He pressed a kiss to her forehead as her eyes closed again. "You're safe, Bryn. Rest."

She did. She had no choice.

###

When she awoke again, it was to find herself wrapped in Alistair's arms. Somehow she'd known, even in sleep, that he was there. Somehow, he'd kept the nightmares away.

Nightmares...

She pushed the worry aside. She was entitled to bad dreams, after everything she'd been through. They didn't have to mean anything.

His eyes blinked open. A smile stretched his lips, deepening the lines at the edge of those hazel orbs. "There you are," he murmured. "I was half afraid I'd wake to find this just a fantasy."

"You came for me."

"Of course I came for you." His brows dipped. "Did you think I wouldn't?"

"I worried that you'd think I'd run off again," she admitted, running a hand over the plain linen of his shirt. She didn't meet his eyes.

He kissed her forehead again, a gesture that warmed her soul. A warmth that was quickly quenched by his next words. "Bryn, we need to talk."

"Now? Alistair, I'm barely awake--"

"Yes. Now. We are going to air what's between us, before someone tries to kill you again, or you get kidnapped, or--or this ship sinks. We should have done this a long time ago." He pushed away from her and rose from the bed. In one quick motion, he pulled over the chair next to the bed and straddled it, backwards.

Bryn frowned, taking in her surroundings for the first time. Wood panelling covered the walls, and there was a slight motion to the room. "We're on a ship?"

"Yes. Don't change the subject." Alistair crossed his arms over the back of the chair and leaned his forehead against them. For the first time, fear stirred in Bryn's chest. When he looked up, his face was serious, an expression that did nothing to quell her anxiety. "I know I practically threw you into the leader's role after Ostagar. It wasn't fair of me to pile that on you after everything you'd already been through, but what can I say? I was weak, I was scared, and I wanted to run away, even though duty wouldn't let me. So I distanced myself from making the decisions that needed to be made. I'm sorry."

"Alistair--"

"I'm talking right now. You'll have your turn."

Bryn blinked at the firm tone of his voice. This was a facet of the ex-templar she hadn't seen before. She wasn't quite sure what to think of it.

He sighed and swiped a hand through his hair. "Despite all of that, you encouraged me to see my own value. To see that I wasn't just the throwaway boy I'd always believed myself to be, the one who had no say in his destiny." His eyes narrowed. "I do have a say, damn it. And it's time you realized that too."

Bryn gave her head a stunned shake at the accusation. "What?"

"Stop taking responsibility for decisions I've made. When you came to me about Morrigan, I could have said no. When you announced our engagement at the Landsmeet, I could have refused it--then or later." Alistair caught her eyes with his. "You instigated those choices, but in the end, they were mine to accept or refuse. You've never forced anything on me. You need to stop thinking you did."

She held her tongue as he grew silent. After a moment, the corner of her mouth quirked. "Can I speak now?"

"What? Oh. Yes. Sorry about that." He took a deep breath. "What do you want to say?"

"You're right."

One of his eyebrows arched. "That's all?"

She shrugged. "I knew you would make a great King. And you have."

"I'll be a better King with you at my side," he said softly. "My love, my heart, but most importantly, my partner."

"Partners, is it?" A smile stretched Bryn's lips. "You don't want me to fade into the background now so you can be all kingly?"

"Maker's breath, no. I'd be worried you'd backstab me from the shadows." His eyes glittered with humor. "Now, I need to do something I should have done long ago." He stood and pushed the chair away. He arranged himself beside the bed, on one knee, a crooked smile on his lips as he met Bryn's gaze. "Bryn Cousland, Hero of Ferelden, will you marry me? Will you be my Queen?"

Bryn's hands clasped together. "What about the heir issue?"

"We'll find a way," he assured her, taking one of her hands in his. "Maybe Avernus knows something. And this new mage...she says she's a Warden, but she has no taint--"

She started. "Fiona is here?"

"She's the reason we escaped."

"Have you--have you spoken with her?" Oh, Maker.

"Briefly. She seems nice enough." Alistair shrugged. "But you're getting us off topic again. I'm still waiting for an answer."

Bryn took a deep breath and stared down at their intertwined fingers. "Alistair, they used blood magic on me. I think I held them off...but I don't know. I could be a danger to you..."

Alistair's grip tightened. "Bryn, do you _want_ to marry me?"

Tears pricked her eyes. "More than anything, but..."

"Enough." He stood and disengaged his hand from hers before walking to the door of the cabin. Bryn's stomach clenched at the thought that maybe he was walking away for good, this time.

Instead, he opened the door, then returned to the bed. Behind him strode a woman Bryn had hoped to never see again. Isabela, the captain of The Siren's Call. Andraste's ashes.

"It's magnificent to see those feisty green eyes again, my sweet," she cooed as she approached the bed.

Bryn groaned. "We're on her ship?"

"And who else would you trust for a mission such as this?" Isabela smirked. "If you'd like company this evening, you two..."

"Dear Maker, I'm never going to live that down, am I?" Bryn's cheeks heated as she remembered her first meeting with the pirate captain, and she pulled the blankets up to camouflage her flimsy nightdress. She'd wanted to learn Isabela's formidable fighting skills, but the captain wouldn't share them without some socializing. Bryn had let the moment and the tankard of the Pearl's strong ale get to her, and she'd flirted with the woman--flirted! In front of Alistair, no less. He'd questioned her, and she'd backed down, embarrassed beyond belief. She still didn't know the secrets of Isabela's fighting style. "Why is she here?"

"You're getting married." Isabela chuckled.

"What--now?" Bryn turned startled eyes to Alistair. "In my nightgown?"

"I'm not waiting any longer. We're doing this now, damn it, before the next crisis prevents us."

The breath hitched in Bryn's chest. Her heart expanded until it seemed like it would burst. She barely noticed as Leliana, Zevran and Oghren entered the room to act as witness; Fiona hovered in the doorway, separate from the rest. She hardly heard Isabela's softly spoken words.

All she saw was Alistair's face. His smiling eyes. The love and promise in his gaze.

"I do," she whispered.


	15. Chapter 15

For the first time in a very long time, Alistair was at peace. Bryn was his wife--finally--and safe from the Wardens. They wouldn't pursue them, not after the blow he'd struck at Weisshaupt. He'd had yet to share the news with Bryn, but he doubted she'd be upset to know that the Ferelden Wardens would be independent from this point on. They'd have to forge their own alliances, instead of relying on ancient ties that meant nothing.

Things could be worse.

He smiled as he felt Bryn shift and rise from the bed. Playfully he reached out in the dark to grab her and pull her to his side, but he missed. She'd recovered quickly from her ordeal, thank the Maker. He'd done his part by making sure she stayed in bed as long as possible.

"Bryn," he called softly as her footsteps padded away. "Where are you going?"

She murmured something he didn't catch, and he relaxed back into the mattress. Half-awake, probably, and seeking the ladies room. He'd wake her a little more thoroughly when she returned. He closed his eyes, dozing, as he imagined folding her into his arms--

At the bite of cold steel on his neck, Alistair's eyes snapped open. Moonlight edged through the cabin's shaded windows, enough to glint off the blade hovering above him. Enough to show who held it.

"Bryn, what--"

"Alistair," she whimpered. "I can't--I can't--"

Blood magic. By Andraste's holy flame. Instinctively, he released a burst of cleansing energy, but Bryn's blade didn't move.

"It's in my mind." Her voice was rough, strained, like saying those few words pushed the limits of her ability. "I can't get it out of my mind!" The blade pressed into his neck and he hissed. She bit her lip, hard enough that blood welled, and she pulled back. "Alistair, please. I can't--"

_Maker._ "I'm sorry," he whispered.

She bit harder. "Do it."

He drew down a blast of templar magic that flung Bryn away. She flew into the wall of the cabin and slumped to the floor. Alistair scrambled to his feet, his throat refusing to allow air to pass. He reached out with tentative fingers to check her pulse and sagged as he felt it beat steadily beneath his touch.

He stepped back as the door to the cabin burst open, bathing the room in light from the hallway. Zevran darted inside, his eyes evaluating the threat.

"Alistair, I heard--" He caught sight of Bryn's prone form on the floor. "Maker's breath. What happened?"

"Blood magic," he spat. They'd been nearly a week at sea. They were hundreds of miles away from Weisshaupt. The Wardens' magic couldn't reach them now--

Perhaps not the Wardens at Weisshaupt. But there was a mage aboard.

"Watch her," Alistair ordered. He grabbed his sword from its hook and strode down the hall.

He didn't knock. With a sure kick, the door to the guest stateroom shot wide.

Oghren leapt up, his head barely missing the underside of the top bunk. "Sodding Ancestors...Alistair? Sweet bloody stone, man, what--"

The King ignored him, and instead reached for the small form on the top bunk. He yanked her down, ignoring the delicate gasp at his rough handling. He dragged the stunned elf down the hall, back to his cabin, and tossed her on the floor next to Bryn.

He stretched out his sword so the point nudged her chin. The dark-haired elf stared up at him, her eyes wide. "Whatever you've done to her," he growled, "undo it."

"I've done nothing," Fiona insisted.

"You expect me to believe that? You're the only mage for hundreds of miles." His eyes narrowed and he pressed forward with the sword. "It was all a ruse, wasn't it? Your pretended friendship with Bryn, our escape--was this Jorn's idea all along? Have you with us so you could have my wife kill me?"

"What? Maker, I--no. No! I would never hurt you, Alistair." She closed her eyes and shook her head. "I know you have no reason to believe me--"

"Remove the magic," he commanded.

"I'm no blood mage. I know nothing about it." A tear leaked out of the corner of Fiona's eye as he lifted his sword under her chin. "I would erase it if I could."

"Alistair."

His eyes flicked to Bryn. "She removes the spell or she dies," he told her.

"It wasn't her. She..." Bryn grunted. "Zev, hold me back."

The assassin frowned, but compiled, wrenching Bryn's arms behind her.

"She stood up for me when Jorn wanted to use blood magic," Bryn continued, her voice strained. "B-bought me time."

"And we're supposed to believe she did that out of the goodness of her heart?" Alistair sneered. "She'd give up her loyalties so quickly?" He turned his gaze back to the mage. "Maker, I was a fool to trust you at the fortress. I should have seen it for what it was."

"She's never wavered in her loyalty, Alistair," Bryn managed. Her eyes sought his, and his soul screamed at the pain there. "She protected me because not doing so would hurt you."

"And why in Andraste's name is she so concerned about my welfare?"

"Damn it." Bryn sucked in a breath as her body struggled to leap forward. She squeezed her eyes shut. Alistair released another burst of cleansing energy, knowing it would do nothing but hoping nonetheless.

"Sod it, I can't--" She shook her head, then groaned. "She's your mother."

Alistair's brows snapped into a frown. "My what?"

His sword dipped away from Fiona's neck as disbelief rushed through him. The shock he felt was reflected in Zevran's eyes, and the assassin gave him a querying look.

With a cry, Bryn yanked herself out of the elf's hold and charged Alistair. He turned, instinct bringing his sword to bear. A choked cry jolted past his lips as he felt the blade bite into flesh.

"No, no," he moaned, releasing the weapon. It clattered to the wooden floor, forgotten, as he pulled Bryn into his arms. "Bryn!" Warmth flowed over his legs, seeping through his pants to kiss at his skin. Instantly, he was back in Highever's Chantry, reliving the horrible moment when Bryn had died in his arms.

And Wynne wasn't here to save her this time.

"Let me see."

Alistair wanted to shove the mage aside. He didn't know what to think--was she the enemy? Why would Bryn say this elven mage was his mother? It made no sense. But if she had healing magic...

He nodded and reluctantly relaxed his grip. Fiona rolled Bryn on her side to get a better look at the wound. "Thank the Maker," she breathed. "It's not that bad. Do you hear me, Alistair? It's not that bad. There's a lot of blood, but that's all."

He swallowed. "Can you--"

"Yes, I can heal her. And when she wakes up, I can teach her how to guard her mind against Yanic--that's the blood mage who did this to her. Will you trust me to do that?"

His eyes hardened. "Heal her. Then we'll talk."

###

Alistair looked up at a soft tap on the door. Isabela poked her head into the room, and he was surprised to see the genuine concern wrinkling her forehead. "How is she?" she murmured, her eyes drifting to Bryn's prone form on the bed.

"Resting. Her wound is healed, but the blood magic influence is still there." He looked at the mage sitting opposite him, her eyes closed and brow furrowed in concentration. Had he made the right choice, trusting Fiona to help? His gaze dropped to the slack hand gripped in his own.

"What's she doing?" Isabela asked with a jerk of her chin in Fiona's direction.

"I don't know." It pained him to admit it. For the first time in his life, he wished he had the talent for magic, so he could be the one to help Bryn through this. Instead, he felt like a little boy pressed against a window pane, dreaming of the toy just on the other side. "It seems to be keeping her calm, though, so I'll take it." He regarded the captain. "Did you need something, Isabela?"

Something flickered in her eyes. "I hate to pull you away, your Majesty--"

His eyes closed briefly and he nodded. "Right. Official business, then." He dipped his lips to Bryn's hand. "I'll be back soon, love," he murmured.

He felt like an old man as he rose and stretched muscles cramped from sitting too long in one position. The adrenaline that had sustained him had long ago fled, leaving him painfully aware of the fatigue rippling through his body. He stifled a yawn as he followed Isabela out of the stateroom and down the corridor to her quarters.

A slight breeze behind him was the only indication that they were no longer alone. Alistair glanced back, unsurprised to see Zev slipping through the door.

A corner of Isabela's generous mouth quirked upward. "Zev. I'm hurt. Don't you trust me?"

"Of course not, dear Isabela." He softened his words with an elegant bow and a genuine smile.

She chuckled. "You were smart to keep this one with you," she said to Alistair.

Maybe if he weren't so tired, he would have rejoined with a witty remark. As it was, all the King said was "I know." He sank into one of the chairs opposite Isabela's ornate wooden desk with a sigh. "How can I help you, Captain?"

"It's not so much how you can help me, your Majesty," Isabela said, retrieving something from her desk. "But how I am going to help you." She tossed an envelope at him.

Alistair caught it without thinking. At Zev's sharply indrawn breath, Isabela frowned. "For Andraste's sake, it's not poisoned, Zevran. Do you think I'd be so foolish?"

"Foolish isn't quite the term, no," the elf admitted.

Alistair turned the envelope over in his hands. It carried no address, but the seal… "This is the Arl of Redcliffe's seal." His brows drew down. "And it's broken. You opened it?"

"I did, as it was intended for me." She lowered herself into the chair behind the desk and crossed her arms. "We'd been about to leave Highever for Marnus Pell, the port town near Weisshaupt, as agreed. You and your companions had already departed on that other ship, bound for the Free Marches. I'd been about to cast off, when a messenger arrived with this envelope, and the instructions not to open it until we reached Marnus Pell."

A shiver of foreboding wound its way through Alistair's limbs. His fingers hesitated on the flap. "I'm not going to like this, am I?"

"No, love." Isabela sighed. "You're not."


	16. Chapter 16

Zevran hovered at Alistair's shoulder as the King withdrew the letter from the envelope. He could see a few lines of black script contrasted against the stark whiteness of the paper, but he had no chance to read the message before Alistair crumpled the paper in his palm. Without a word, he tossed the letter on Isabela's desk and stormed out of the room.

The elf retrieved it and smoothed the creases. Isabela didn't protest, strangely enough; she sat there, quietly watching. Zev spared her but a glance before turning his attention to the letter.

_The seas at this time of year are treacherous, are they not? Teyrn Fergus tells me that his sister is not well-used to travel aboard a ship. I hope that you will take every precaution for her safety, but Ferelden will understand should an accident occur._

Fury swept through Zev, and he spat an Antivan curse. "Don't tell me you didn't read between the lines," he growled at Isabela.

"I'm not stupid, Zev," she said, her eyes narrowed. "I know exactly what that letter was telling me to do. Had it been anyone else, they might have found themselves accidentally cast overboard. But, no. Not her."

"Why not?"

She chuckled. "Truthfully? I'd been planning on it until you all came racing down the pier like a dozen rage demons pursued you. Until Alistair took me aside and asked me if I would marry them once Bryn awoke." She looked away, but not before Zev caught a slight glimmer in her gaze.

"Isabela," he said, startled. "You're a romantic!"

"Hush. I could still have you thrown overboard, and don't think I won't. You just keep your mouth shut about that." She flicked her fingers at him. "Go. Keep your King from doing something stupid."

Acknowledging the wisdom of that statement with a slight incline of his head, Zev tucked the letter into his jerkin and left in pursuit of Alistair. A quick glance in the royal stateroom revealed that he hadn't returned. Most likely on deck then, Zev decided.

He'd thought to find the King raging. Or even staring morosely at the horizon as the sun dipped into the last quarter of the sky. Not sitting in the corner, his back braced against the wall, looking utterly defeated.

For once, the elf held his tongue. Witty remarks would do nothing to help. He sat down beside the King, and waited.

"I shouldn't be surprised. I really shouldn't." Alistair swept a hand over his short, reddish hair.

"Why not?" Zev shrugged. "I am."

"Truly?" The King cast a sideways glance at him. His eyes were dark with weariness. "The great Zevran, caught off-guard by an aging arl?"

"No," Zev said soberly. "The great Zevran, caught off-guard by the man who raised a good friend of mine and helped us when we needed it most."

Alistair closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. Sea spray coated his skin, but he didn't seem to care. "I am a tool to him. I saw it, back at Redcliffe, before the Landsmeet. I was the means by which to remove Loghain from power, nothing more. Maybe the means by which he can steer the country, I don't know. He's only ever really cared about the blood that's in my veins, not the boy that was once in his care or the man I've become. I wonder, does he even see me when he looks at me? Or just the vessel for four hundred years of tradition?"

Zevran stared up at the masts and the sails rippling overhead, for once unsure of the best words for the situation. "Why would he want Bryn--"

"Gone? Simple. I thought you knew, actually. I thought everyone knew." He sighed. "Grey Wardens are all but infertile, because of the taint. One Grey Warden will find it difficult to have children. For two…it's nearly impossible."

"Ah." He seemed to recall some mention of the taint in that context, but the implications hadn't sunk in. The elf nodded as many things began to fall into place. The tension between Bryn and Alistair, the discussions with Eamon...

"The line of Calenhad ends with me."

Zev's eyes flicked to Alistair's still form at the pronouncement. The elf wondered if the King heard the sorrow in his own voice, or the disappointment.

"He tried to get Cailan to put Anora aside just for that reason, you know. And he's never supported my marriage to Bryn because of it." Alistair opened his eyes and tilted his head forward to look at the expanse of moist planks in front of them. "I suppose the idea of Maric's line ending here--again--was too much for him."

Zev's mouth twisted as he hesitated to share his revelation. "He is probably responsible for the assassination attempt at the Chantry, Alistair."

The King groaned. "Maker. Are you sure? No, of course you're right. What are the chances of multiple factions scheming to kill my wife, right?"

"Given her reputation and prowess in battle, not to mention the love and admiration she inspires everywhere she goes," Zev said, "I'd say we're looking at the man responsible."

Alistair thudded the back of his head against the wall, once, twice. "I don't want it to be him, Zev."

"I know, my friend." Zev blew out a breath. "But it is. And, Alistair...you need to act."

The King's eyes drifted closed. "I expect I'll need more proof than a vaguely worded letter given to me by an unscrupulous pirate captain. I don't doubt her--do you?" His eyes snapped open to fasten on Zev's.

The elf shook his head slowly. "Isabela will manipulate those she desires when it suits her, but she is not one to implement elaborate schemes. She would not go through the trouble to steal the seal of Redcliffe, or to pen a letter in Eamon's hand. She has nothing to gain by lying to you about this, or by pitting you against the Arl; she has no political agenda, merely the need to keep her ship afloat and her crew happy." Zev paused, considering. "So...no, I do not doubt her."

"That was my conclusion as well," Alistair said with a sigh. "I wanted to believe it was a ploy, but it didn't make sense. Which means she's telling the truth. Which means...Maker's blood." He drew his knees up and braced his elbows on them. Bitterness entered his voice, a tone Zev had heard all too often from him of late. He was stunned at the sudden sense of mourning for the naive young templar he'd met so long ago. "Arl Eamon is well respected through the land, more so now that he's helped me so often. Decrying him publicly will not be an easy task."

"Luckily, you have the great Zevran at your disposal, your Majesty," Zev said with a wink. "I'm sure that between us and Leliana, we can come up with a plan."

"What, you're not going to invite Oghren?"

The elf sighed dramatically. "If you insist. He may bring the ale."

"Now that is the best idea I've heard yet. Getting a little drunk sounds like an eminently good plan." The King pushed himself to his feet with a groan. "Maybe a lot drunk. I've earned it, don't you think?"

"And have Bryn scold me when you return to your cabin reeking of liquor?" Zev snorted. "I think not."

"You're no fun, Zevran." Alistair clapped a hand on the elf's back. "Come on, then. Let me check on Bryn. Then we can get to plotting."

###

Bryn stared at her hands clenched together in her lap, unable to look at Alistair. She wanted to…Maker, how she wanted to, but every time she did, the terrible urges to harm him rose again. The techniques that Fiona had taught her to calm her mind and center herself over the last few days helped dull the pressure to act against him, but it was still there. Her head ached with the effort to hold herself back.

"You're certain?" His voice was rough with emotion. Bryn's fingers whitened against each other from the force of her grip.

"Yes," Fiona said, fatigue weighing down her tone. "Yanic somehow used the taint to connect with Bryn, which is probably the reason why he's able to influence her over such a long distance."

"Is there a way to sever it?"

"I don't know. Maker help me, I wish I knew more about blood magic. But it's so foreign, so…repulsive." Fiona shuddered. "I know a little bit about it--you can't be a Grey Warden mage and not be exposed to it--but I never had any desire to greatly expand my knowledge of that particular school."

"So what do we do?" Bryn asked softly.

"Prolonged exposure to Alistair is going to wear away at the defenses I taught you. You've said the influence is harder to ignore when you're in his presence, yes?"

Bryn nodded, a tear leaking past the corner of her eye.

"No. Stop right there. I'm not even going to let you voice that." The King shoved himself to his feet and strode across the room. "We will get through this. Together. Separating is not an option."

Bryn bit her lip. "Alistair--"

"No. You are my wife, and I won't let you go. Not over this. Fiona, there has to be another way."

"I can think of two other options, though neither are very appealing." The mage sighed and leaned back heavily in her chair. "We can try to cure Bryn of the taint, which would remove Yanic's doorway to influence her. I can speak with this Avernus fellow you've mentioned; it sounds as though he understands the effects of the taint far better than his counterparts in Weisshaupt. But I don't know if it's possible. Besides which, it's dangerous. Before the taint left me, it accelerated to the point that I nearly became--" She broke off, her lips pressed into a thin line. "A darkspawn," she finished softly. "I could hear the call of the archdemon like it was the most exquisite music. It was horrible, and it nearly drove me mad. I don't know what reversed and removed the taint. We might succeed only in triggering your Calling. I couldn't bear that."

"Maker," Bryn breathed.

"And the second option?" Alistair said grimly.

Fiona closed her eyes. "More blood magic."

"Andraste's ass!" Alistair roared. "How is more blood magic going to help?"

"I'm just telling you what I can think of. I didn't say either were good options."

"Alistair," Bryn said. "Hear her out."

The King crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his back against the cabin's wall. "Fine. I'm listening."

"One of the blood magic rituals I know is a very simple one that forges a connection between two people, a way to share abilities. A blood mage might do this, for example, to use an ally's life force to power his spells. But there are more innocuous uses for it."

"Go on," Bryn said.

"As a templar, or a man with all of the abilities of a templar, at any rate, Alistair has a innate resistance to mental influence," Fiona said. "By undergoing this ritual to connect the two of you, Bryn would gain some of that resistance. It should make her immune to the blood magic influence."

"'Should' make me?" Bryn repeated. "It's not that easy, is it?"

"Well…no." Fiona smoothed back a strand of hair that had escaped the knot at the nape of her neck. "The ritual is usually intended for situations in which one party overpowers and uses the other, like the example of the blood mage using his ally's life force that I mentioned earlier. Finding a balance, where neither of you drains the other, is extremely difficult, if not impossible. And then..." Fiona sighed. "There is the chance that the connection would open up Alistair to Yanic's influence instead."

"Then it's not an option," Bryn stated.

"I think I'll decide that for myself, thank you," Alistair snapped.

"Don't be an idiot," Bryn growled. "You're the King. Exposing you to the potential of a blood mage's influence is a ridiculous risk, and not one we can afford to take."

"So I should choose to let you go or risk your life, instead?" Alistair threw up his arms. "Now who's being the ridiculous one?"

"I say we try to remove the taint."

"Bryn--"

"No, wait." She shook her head. "I knew Fiona held the key for that even before I met her."

Alistair frowned. "What?"

"How?" Fiona demanded.

"Morrigan," Bryn said simply. "She came to me in the Fade and told me to seek out Fiona of the Grey Wardens if I wanted to--"

"Wanted to what?" the mage prompted.

Bryn swallowed. "Have Alistair's children."

"Maker's breath. And that's why you're considering this?" Alistair shot across the room and knelt before Bryn's chair. He covered her hands with his own. "It's not that important, love."

"Ferelden deserves Theirin heirs, Alistair." Gently she removed her hands from his before the urge to wrap them around his neck grew intolerable. "I can't forgive Eamon for his actions, but I can understand his madness, to some extent. There is a reason your line united the nation. It's filled with heroes. Who are we to deny Ferelden that legacy?"

"But…removing the taint…" He shook his head. "You would no longer be a Grey Warden."

"Would you love me less if I wasn't?" Bryn's heart skipped a beat as she waited for the answer.

His brows drew down. "No, of course not. But it's who you are, isn't it? Are you so eager to give up a part of yourself for this?"

"Others may call me the Grey Warden, or the Hero of Ferelden, but that is _what_ I am, not _who_ I am." She squeezed his hand. "I am Bryn Cousland, daughter to Bryce and Eleanor Cousland, sister to Teyrn Fergus Cousland, and, most importantly, wife to Alistair Theirin."

The King chuckled. "Pardon me, but doesn't that make you Bryn Theirin, then?"

She smiled. "I suppose it does. I'm still getting used to this whole 'being married' thing. My point is, I know who I am, Alistair. Being a Grey Warden, or not being one, doesn't change my place in this world."

"You're sure about this?" Fiona said, tension lining her voice. "It's an enormous risk."

Bryn fortified her mental defenses and met Alistair's hazel eyes. "I'm sure," she said.

"Then when we dock in Denerim tomorrow, I'll be off to Soldier's Peak to meet Avernus." Fiona sighed. "Lucky me."


	17. Chapter 17

Alistair lounged on the bed in Isabela's stateroom. She'd graciously offered it to him when it had become apparent that he and Bryn would be unable to share the same room for the remainder of the voyage. He'd suggested finding a bunk for himself amidst the crew, but Isabela wouldn't hear of it. He supposed being King had some advantages.

Though the difficulties seemed to outweigh them greatly.

Maker. It seemed every time he managed to snatch some happiness for himself, something ripped it out of his grasp again. What if Fiona and Avernus couldn't figure out how to cure Bryn? No--he wouldn't think about that. They would be successful, and it would work. It had to.

A soft tap sounded on the door. He thought about ignoring it, but decided an interruption to his dark thoughts would be welcome. "Come in," he called.

The door cracked open slightly and Fiona slipped inside. She seemed so delicate, and yet Alistair had seen the strength within her on more than one occasion now.

"Can we talk?" she asked, her uncertainty telegraphed in her hunched shoulders and fidgeting hands.

_She's your mother._ Bryn's words echoed in his mind as clearly as if she'd just spoken them. Alistair pushed his feet over the side of the bed and rose, waving Fiona to one of the armchairs by the porthole. "I suppose you want to talk about why you think you're my mother," he said as he took the seat across from her.

Without a word, Fiona withdrew something from the front of her shirt. A necklace. Alistair stilled as he recognized it. "I know you have one just like this," she said softly.

"It was my mother's," the King said after a moment, his eyes locked on the pendant. His hand twitched and he fought the desire to lift his own amulet from beneath his shirt. He narrowed his eyes and tore them away. "It means nothing."

"Tell me about her."

Alistair frowned. Odd request, considering that this elven mage thought _she_ was his mother. "She was a servant at Redcliffe Castle. I never knew her; she died when I was born."

"You must have been told more than that."

"I--" His lips twisted. "No, not really. Her name was Evelyn. I did some research when I joined the Grey Wardens and discovered I had a half-sister…who, honestly, I'd rather not talk about."

"You met her?"

"I suppose, if you can call being shrieked at for killing her mother meeting someone."

Fiona grimaced. "She sounds...lovely."

"You have no idea."

"And your father?"

Alistair shrugged to mask the tension accumulating in his shoulders. "What about him? He was the King. That's all I knew of him."

"You never spoke?"

"No, never." He blew out a breath. "What's the point of this conversation?"

Fiona stared at the amulet in her hands, silent. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'd hoped to spare you heartache, not cause it."

Something in his chest twisted at the sadness and regret in her tone. "Let me guess: you had an affair with Maric. Why am I not surprised?"

"Don't speak of your father like that," Fiona snapped. "He was a good man. Honorable."

"Not so honorable that he didn't enjoy bedding anything that moved," Alistair muttered.

"Is that what you..." Fiona closed her eyes and nodded. "Of course that's what you would think. That's what was shown to you, wasn't it? But it's not the truth. Oh, Alistair. I wish you'd been able to know him." A half-smile crooked her lips as she met his gaze. "You are so much like him. He was a reluctant king as well, you know. When I met him, he was escaping his responsibilities as much as helping the Grey Wardens. I thought him immature and foolish, at first, but in reality, he was anything but." She sighed. "When I returned to Denerim, with you and Duncan, he implored me to stay. But I couldn't. Without the Grey Wardens, I was nothing...an apostate elven mage who held the King's eye, and maybe his heart, but that wasn't enough. He understood. He certainly didn't like it, but he understood." Her gaze clouded with memories. "I'll never forget the expression on his face as he looked down at you for the first time. You were sleeping. He was stunned, but underneath the shock was a happiness that lifted my heart. He wanted to keep you in the castle, to keep you close." Her lips tightened and she looked down again. "It was my wish that you be allowed to live apart, to find your own destiny without the responsibilities of a prince or the prejudice that would come if people knew your mother was an elf. I didn't want you to be cornered by fate, and yet here you are. A Grey Warden, like your mother, and King, like your father. The Maker has a sense of humor after all."

Alistair opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue refused to move. Something in her words rang true; she believed every word she spoke. But--no. She had to be mistaken.

"I'm sorry that I was not there for you, and that, because of me, your father was not, either." She took a deep breath and swept a hand over her hair. "At least you had Duncan looking out for you."

"He was the first person who ever cared what I wanted in my life. I wish--" Alistair shook his head.

"He was your guardian. You didn't know that, did you?" Fiona said at Alistair's puzzled look. "Do you think it was just good timing that a Grey Warden came looking for recruits on the eve of your templar vows?"

"He--" Alistair pushed to his feet and paced away to the wall. "Are you saying he came specifically to recruit me?"

"You were safe enough in the Chantry when you were younger," Fiona said. "In one of his letters to me, Duncan mentioned that Maric thought it was the best place for you. At least in the Chantry, you'd be educated. But, no...there was never the intention to allow you to take your vows as a templar and thus be forced into a lyrium addiction. I would not have stood idly by and let that happen, you have my word."

"So Duncan recruited me. But the Joining--it could have killed me."

"You're the son of a Grey Warden, who was a Grey Warden when she birthed you. So, yes, the Joining could have killed you, but it was unlikely." Fiona's eyes narrowed. "However, I asked Duncan not to put you through the Joining. You deserved the freedom to choose your own path. But then he started having the dreams again...and the next letter I received told me that you had survived the ritual."

"Maker's breath." Alistair collapsed into his seat and stared at the woman across from him, numb. In a few short minutes, she'd flipped his world on its side, giving him an entirely new perspective. A father and mother who wanted him but couldn't keep him? A mentor who'd watched out for him for years? "I don't...know what to think. I still don't believe you. I can't. How can I just take your word about all of this?"

"Do you have your amulet?"

Alistair hesitated, then pulled the necklace from beneath his shirt. Eamon had done an admirable job of repairing the broken pendant, but it still had rough spots crackling across its surface. With an effort, Alistair shoved thoughts of the Arl aside.

"Turn it over."

The King did so, frowning at the patterns and symbols on the opposite side. He'd always wondered what they were, particularly after he'd joined the Chantry and discovered they weren't anything related to Andraste.

Fiona rose and joined him, showing him her own upended medallion. Similar markings covered the back. "It's elvish," she said. "And nothing so grand as you might think. On the reverse of your amulet is simply my name, and your name is on mine."

Alistair's heart thudded in his chest. "I can't read elvish. You could say whatever you wanted about these markings; I'd have no way to verify it."

"Surely your friend, Zevran, knows a little of our language." Fiona gave him a sad smile. "Go ask him."

Alistair stared at the woman for a moment more before rising to seek out the assassin. He wasn't sure what game the mage was playing, but it would be easy enough to disprove it--provided Zevran could, indeed, read elvish.

The King found his friend on deck, enjoying the last vestiges of daylight. His long blonde hair glistened in the setting sun. "Ah, Alistair. And how fares our Bryn?"

"Well enough," Alistair replied. He handed the amulet to the elf. "Can you read this?"

"You think me some illiterate fool, when I can recite poetry as beautifully as I do? Oh, I see. It's elvish." Zev's eyes narrowed. "Lucky for you, the Dalish forced me to study some of the language in the brief time I was with them. It's a little tough to make out, with the damage and the wear, but..." His gaze shot up to the King's. "Where did you get this?"

Alistair's blood ran cold, then heated. "It's mine."

"You're certain? Because, my friend, this is a name in elvish scroll...and it isn't yours."

The King staggered back, one hand shooting out to grab the rail. He heard Zev's voice calling him as though the elf were miles away. The world faded, greying at the edges, and he felt a firm pressure pushing his head toward his knees.

"Breathe, Alistair." His surroundings reappeared as Zev's voice became clearer, and he found himself sitting on the deck, limbs askew. "Maker's breath. Don't do that to me. I was looking about for the assassin who'd felled you, wondering how I was ever going to explain my second such failing to your wife. She's more frightening than you are, you know."

Alistair swallowed. "Whose name is it, Zev?"

"I think you already know, don't you, my friend?" The elf folded the amulet into Alistair's numb fingers. "It says 'Fiona'."

The King lurched to his feet. "I have to--" He didn't finish before he careened back below decks.

Fiona rose from her seat as he thundered into the captain's stateroom. He stood just past the doorway, staring at her. A million thoughts and emotions swirled through his mind, none of them identifiable. The cool air of the room kissed his cheeks, and he realized they were wet with tears.

"You're--" His throat choked closed and he gave his head an impatient shake. "You're my mother."

"Yes, Alistair. I truly am." Tentatively, she opened her arms.

In two steps forward, he found himself enfolded in her embrace. His mother's embrace. The last resistance in his chest dissolved, and the tears borne of a lonely childhood burst free.


	18. Chapter 18

"Bryn! Flank it!"

She shook her head at Alistair's order, wondering why she hadn't been paying attention to the battle. Ridiculous. Immediately, she fell into place behind the hurlock attacking the King and struck it, finding a weakness in its armor. After two well-placed strikes, it crumpled to the ground. With a battle cry, Alistair moved onto the next target, and Bryn followed.

The Battle of Denerim. She remembered storming the city's gates and listening to Riordan's plan with fear bubbling under her breastbone. Not worry for herself so much, as for the senior Warden himself. Infiltrating the city alone...it was a strategy borne of desperation, but she couldn't argue it. With only the three Wardens in all of Ferelden, they had to take risks.

She swept out one dagger at a genlock who'd appeared behind her, neatly decapitating it. Darkspawn bodies littered the ground. They'd already killed the general in the Market District, but an even greater force had been waiting in the Alienage. There was a never-ending supply of targets. She could see the second general, casting spells over the rest of the darkspawn, but they hadn't been able to reach it, yet.

A roar split the sky. Her eyes shot upwards in time to see the archdemon glide overhead. The taint emanating from it chilled her to her core. Riordan had been right: nothing she'd done to this point had prepared her for this battle. The dragon pumped its wings once, twice, and disappeared in the direction of Fort Drakon. Bryn whispered a quick prayer to the Maker that Riordan would be safe, and focused again on the darkspawn surrounding her.

Alistair flashed her a smile as they dispatched another creature, a slight curve of his lips, and she knew he shared her feeling that this was right...this was where she belonged. At his side, battling evil. This was her destiny.

Another roar reverberated through the Alienage. The archdemon? Returning? Cold twined around Bryn's spine. No...that wasn't right.

And Bryn knew. This was a dream.

She watched in horror, frozen, as the archdemon dove at them, its talons outstretched. It plowed through darkspawn and ally soldiers alike, tossing everything aside. Its black eye fixed on her and Alistair. And still, she couldn't move.

It landed before them. Alistair bellowed and charged it. A denial rose in Bryn's throat, but she couldn't voice it. The dragon snatched the King in its maw, and his cry was cut off in a sick gurgle. She couldn't turn away. She couldn't scream. She couldn't help him. She could do nothing but watch as his golden armor was stained red, as the archdemon bit down again, and again, and then, finished with its toy, tossed him away.

Her heart thundered in her chest as the creature brought its head down to face her, turning so its eye stared directly into hers. Alistair's blood dripped from its jaw. It opened its mouth to trumpet its challenge at her, and flecks of red sprayed across her face.

"Bryn!"

Alistair's voice. But no, he was dead. Maker help her, he was dead and she hadn't been able to do anything to stop it. She stared at the dragon, praying that it would finish it quickly.

"Bryn! Wake up!"

Someone grabbed her shoulders and forced her to face them.

And she was in the stateroom, staring at Alistair. She blinked, disoriented by the sudden switch in her surroundings. He pulled her into his arms, whispering into her ear as she struggled to reconcile what she'd seen.

"You're not dead," she breathed.

"Neither are you," he said. His shoulders shook beneath her hands.

She froze. "Maker, no. You...you dreamed it too?"

He pulled back, his eyes filled with shadows. "I did."

She tossed her head as panic began to swell. "It was just a nightmare. There could be plenty of reasons you had the same dream."

"Bryn." He laid a hand along her cheek. He was silhouetted in the light spilling from the open doorway, but she could see the truth in his eyes. "You know it wasn't a regular dream, or a memory come back to haunt us. The archdemon...it wasn't the same."

"What do you--" She caught her breath. Maker's blood. "No. It was black and red, wasn't it? Not purple. Oh. Oh, Alistair."

He nodded. "They've found another Old God."

###

Alistair sat in the chair next to Bryn's bed, his elbows braced on his knees and his forehead in his palms. The dream had been the most intense he'd experienced, surpassing even the impact of those he'd had as they neared the final battle during the Blight. His mind was still dull with shock. How could they be on the precipice of another Blight? Never had there been less than two centuries between darkspawn invasions. It didn't make sense.

"We're going to need to figure out where they're amassing," he said. "Possibly in the Kocari Wilds again; the way has already been carved for them in that area."

"We'll need to step up recruitment, particularly now that we won't have the support of the other Wardens." Bryn's voice sounded as tired as he felt.

Alistair closed his eyes at the thought of condemning people to a life of darkness, nightmares and early death. But it was necessary. "We can try to reforge a link with the Orlesian Wardens. They may put aside any animosity toward us if they've experienced the nightmares as well. Bryn--"

She nodded. "You don't need to say it."

"I'm sorry." His hands ached to hold her, but he kept his distance. "But if we are about to experience another Blight..."

"Fiona and Avernus won't have the time to spare to research how to remove the taint. I know." She sighed. "We also can't afford to show Ferelden a divided front."

"Not that I would consider letting you go, not now. I need you with me. As a Grey Warden, and as my Queen."

Her hands gripped the bedclothes, wrinkling them. "So that leaves only one option. Are you sure you want to do this? Alistair--"

"Trust me." He shot her a quick grin. "I'm not as malleable as I once was."

Something flickered in her eyes, gone too quickly for him to identify it. "No, I can see that. Anora once told me that you didn't have any kingly qualities. I can't help but think she'd have to eat those words, now."

He sighed in mock disappointment. "I would have so liked to see her expression of distaste as she did so, too. Oh, well, she's better off in the Free Marches. Or wherever her exile took her." He took a deep breath. "Shall I go get Fiona?"

Bryn nodded. "The sooner we get this over with, the better."

###

Somehow, doing this forbidden ritual in the middle of the night seemed right. They'd shoved the stateroom's furniture to the side to give Fiona enough space to inscribe the glyph on the floor. Unease trickled through Bryn as she eyed the strange symbol, but she forced it away. She didn't have the luxury of indecision. If they were truly on the precipice of another Blight, Ferelden needed her and Alistair to be as strong as they could be. They could not have this tension between them, not if they wanted to prevent Ferelden from fracturing under the renewed pressure of the darkspawn.

"Are you ready?" Fiona asked softly.

"Not really," she admitted with a huffed breath.

"That's a glyph of protection." The elf nodded at the glimmering ice-blue symbol. "It should keep Yanic at bay while we complete the ritual."

"There's that 'should' again." Bryn gave the mage a weak smile.

"Nothing is guaranteed. But I will do my best to protect you both, I swear it." Fiona laid her hand on Alistair's forearm as she said the words. "Now, step into the center of the symbol and sit, facing each other."

Bryn and Alistair arranged themselves as Fiona instructed. The pressure of Yanic's influence eased somewhat as she settled into the glyph, and she was able to look at Alistair without the constant urge to harm him. She rolled her shoulders, feeling as though a burden had been lifted from them.

"I think the protection glyph is working," Alistair commented drily as Bryn met his eyes without flinching away.

"I can still feel it, but, yes, the influence is much less." She took a deep breath and reached for her husband's hand. "I love you."

"Hey, now, what's that kind of talk? Everything's going to be fine."

"Well, it doesn't hurt to say it, does it?"

"Better than being run through," Alistair agreed with a wink.

Bryn couldn't help the answering smile that curved her lips. The grin faltered as Fiona approached them with a wicked-looking knife. Its curved blade shone like cold fire in the blue glow of the symbol. She swallowed. "Any last-minute advice?"

The elf's lips twisted. "Don't die?"

"An excellent tip," Alistair said. "I try to live my life by it."

"I'm going to forge the connection between the two of you, but it will be up to you to master it. You'll have to find a balance, where each of you are equal. If one dominates, the other will die."

"Lovely." Bryn grimaced. "Let's get on with this, then."

"Hold out your hands."

They did so, palm up, and Fiona slashed the well-honed knife across their skin. Bryn barely felt the wound until blood started to seep up. Fiona dipped the tip of the dagger into Bryn's blood, then Alistair's, and traced a new glyph surrounding them. It glowed with an angry red hue, competing with the soft blue of the benign symbol underneath. Fiona muttered a constant stream of words as she worked, words Bryn couldn't understand and didn't want to. The hairs at the nape of her neck rose and she tensed, ready to call it off.

"Bryn." Alistair's voice was soft but firm. "It's all right. Trust me."

"Clasp your hands together," Fiona ordered.

Bryn glanced at her bloodied palms, then up at her husband. He gave her a quick nod. Inhaling deeply, she pressed her hands to his.

The stateroom disappeared. Between one heartbeat and the next, she was…elsewhere. Not the Fade, no. Somewhere else. Somewhere nameless. She could see nothing, hear nothing; she was floating, bodiless, in a void.

Something tugged on her, like Ballistan when she held a bone he wanted. Urgent, insistent. She pulled back as she felt herself slipping. Fear cascaded through her. What was this place? What was this essence that was trying to overpower her? Was it Yanic? Had they inadvertently opened her even wider to his influence?

Another yank, stronger this time. She held her ground, unwilling to give way, despite the consistent pull. It strengthened, and it seemed…desperate, somehow.

_You'll have to find a balance._

Was the pull Alistair? She had no way to tell in this empty space. She could not sense him. It could be a trick, a way for Yanic to lure her into acquiescence. But if it wasn't, and she continued to resist…they would not find their balance, and one of them would die.

_Trust me._ His words echoed in her mind, but she didn't know if they were truly spoken or just a memory.

I do, she whispered soundlessly. And stopped fighting.

Instantly she was swept into a vortex of light and warmth. Comfort, protection, love…it surrounded her like the softest wool blanket. Like Alistair's arms. She felt his strength flowing into her, and hers flowing into him, an endless link. His emotions crowded her mind until she didn't know where his feelings ended and hers began, and it didn't matter. When Fiona had said they would forge a connection, Bryn had never dreamed of this…this level of completion. This wholeness.

She blinked, and reality flickered back into view. Her heart slammed against her breastbone as she sucked in heavy breaths, like she'd just run a mile…or enjoyed an intense round of loving. Her eyes were locked on Alistair's, and she saw her desire reflected there, intense enough to scorch.

"I'll, uh…" Fiona coughed delicately. "I'll leave you two alone."

The door had barely closed before Alistair pinned Bryn to the floor, his lips hot against hers. They burned a path across her skin. "Did you feel it?" he groaned against her neck.

She inhaled, drawing in his warm, intense scent. Her senses had expanded…she could feel his pleasure at kissing her, his need to have her. "I still can," she gasped.

"Maker's breath," he said, and they began an exploration of this newfound connection between them.


	19. Chapter 19

The sun had crested and was beginning its descent as they approached Denerim the next day. Bryn stood at the prow of the ship, her hands gripping the railing. The cuts on her palms ached, and she felt the murmur of pain from Alistair's wounds as well. The connection between them hadn't waned in the hours that had passed since Fiona's ritual; if anything, it had grown less tentative. By all appearances, the effort to free her of Yanic's influence had succeeded. With Alistair's strength and innate mental resistance now a part of her, she'd been able to shrug off the repeated attempts to gain control of her mind. The persistent prodding had finally retreated around dawn, she hoped permanently.

She bit her lip as she watched the crowd milling about on the dock. Obviously, _The Siren's Call_ had been recognized, and word had spread. She wished she had something more grand to wear than her simple drakeskin armor. Her daggers were strapped to her back, and they gave her some comfort, but she felt inadequate. She was the Queen, and she felt like she was nothing more than a well-armored street urchin.

Alistair joined her and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Everything all right, love?"

Assurances wanted to slip from her lips, but she stopped them. He knew tension coiled within her; there was no point in denying it. "I'm nervous."

"Why? The people love you. You're the Hero of Ferelden."

"But now I'm Queen, too. And, uh, kind of suddenly, at that." She glanced up at him. "Will they accept it?"

"I think we'll have celebrating in the streets tonight." He grinned. "Some good news will be heartily appreciated after so much darkness."

A tendril of worry snaked from him to her. She leaned her temple against his breastplate, warmed by the sun. "Are you sure you can do what needs to be done?"

"No." He blew out a breath. "But it's not like I have a lot of choice, do I?"

They remained at the prow until the ship docked. Bryn couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips as the crowd's cheers reached her. Had she once wondered where she belonged? She didn't doubt it any longer--all of Ferelden was her home. She supposed being away for so long helped open her eyes to that fact.

The ship docked easily and the gangway was lowered. Alistair reached down and intertwined his hand in Bryn's, drawing her knuckles upward for a quick kiss. "Let's go, my Queen," he whispered with a smile.

Eamon waited at the bottom of the ramp, a welcoming smile on his face. If Bryn hadn't been looking for it, she wouldn't have seen the slight faltering of his grin as he took in her presence at Alistair's side. "Your Majesty," he greeted Alistair with a slight bow. "Warden Commander. It's good to see you home again, and safe."

"'Warden Commander' is no longer really an appropriate title, Eamon," Alistair said.

"No? I take it the…negotiations did not go well, then?"

"About as well as can be expected." Alistair shrugged. "But it is generally more acceptable to refer to the Queen as 'your Majesty', I believe."

"Queen?" Eamon's eyes darted from Alistair to Bryn. "You're--you're married?"

"Well, I wasn't about to lose her again. Captain Isabela was kind enough to preside with our companions as witnesses." Alistair smiled and clapped Eamon on the back. "What, not happy for me, Eamon?"

The Arl's lips stretched in a grin. "Of course I'm happy for you, boy! Congratulations." He folded his arm around Alistair's shoulders.

Alistair did the same. Bryn struggled to keep her expression neutral as she saw her husband's fingers bite into the Arl's upper arm. Eamon grunted. "I believe it's time for a private audience with my regent," Alistair said. His fury simmered along the link they shared, and Bryn hoped he would be able to control his emotions until they reached the palace.

To his credit, Eamon didn't pretend he wasn't aware of Alistair's changed demeanor. The smile dropped, and he nodded.

"Excellent," Oghren rumbled. "Let's go. I've had sodding enough of boats."

They started the journey up to Palace District, cries of "congratulations" and "long live the Queen and King" filling the air. Bryn wanted to enjoy the moment, to revel in the city's acceptance, but she couldn't. To the casual observer, she knew the procession back to the palace looked innocent. But Alistair never released Eamon, and the rest of their companions fanned out behind them in a familiar pattern, one they'd adopted frequently as they trekked through Ferelden, ready for any attack. She waved at the crowds, maintaining the charade, hoping no one could see how much sadness her smile concealed.

###

Bryn stood on the balcony of the royal chambers, staring out across the Drakon River as it wound through the city to the Amaranthine Ocean. She'd traded her armor for a filmy nightdress in moss green, and she'd unbound her hair to flow down her back. As Alistair had predicted, Denerim had erupted in celebration as the word spread that not only had the King and Warden Commander returned, but they'd returned as a married couple. Any worry Bryn might have had that she wouldn't be accepted as Queen was quickly abolished as the kitchen staff scrambled to put together an impromptu feast and citizens took to the streets to announce their well wishes. Laughter and music still bubbled across the city, despite the late hour.

Above the revelry, the stars peppered the heavens in undulating pattern of purity, and it was a challenge to remember under such a perfect sky, with the happiness of the city flowing around her, that the situation in Ferelden was far from perfect. Even without the horrible dream from the night before, Bryn would have known that something dark was out there, waiting to act. She could feel it hanging in the air, like the anticipation of standing at the edge of a cliff and wondering if this would be the time that the ledge beneath her would give way. She shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself, moving back from the edge of the balcony.

She turned as the door to the chamber opened and closed, and she knew before she saw him that Alistair had returned. He sat down heavily in one of the chairs before the fire and she moved to crouch in front of him. Weariness trembled across their link, along with regret, sorrow, and a hundred other tangled emotions. "Eamon's gone?" she said quietly, her hands resting on his knees.

"With Isolde and a contingent of guards to make sure they don't change their minds." The King closed his eyes and leaned his head back. "Isabela offered to ship them to Val Royeaux. I think she feels guilty that she'd considered helping him with his plan."

Before they'd disembarked _The Siren's Call_, they'd decided that Eamon needed to be dealt with quietly. Enough uncertainty hovered on the horizon; Ferelden did not need the complications of a grand political scandal. As far as the rest of the nation was concerned, Eamon and Isolde had simply decided to join their son, Connor, as he studied magic in Tevinter. "Are you all right?"

Alistair blew out a breath. "Not really. I mean, sure, exile is better than execution, right? But part of me thinks I should have killed him. That I'll regret not doing so." He covered her hands with his own. "Maker's breath, Bryn."

"It's one thing to execute a man you didn't know," she said, turning her palms up so she could clasp his hands to hers. The barely healed scars on her hands tingled as they connected with his. "Another thing entirely to order the death of the man who raised you."

"But what he did--it was even worse than Loghain's betrayal. I should have--"

"Let it go, love," she whispered, rising and settling herself sideways into his lap.

He looked up at her with a quick, surprised grin. "Are you volunteering to distract me? Because I think I'll need a lot of distraction tonight."

"Oh, will you, now," she teased, inhaling sharply as she sensed his desire. "Wait--before we get carried away, I need to talk to you."

"And this is why, sometimes, I hate being King." He sighed. "You're never just allowed to get carried away in the moment, without some life-or-death situation intruding."

She punched his shoulder playfully. "Funny. Ten minutes, I promise, then we can get carried away."

"Five," he growled, nuzzling her neck.

Bryn struggled to hold onto her train of thought. "Okay, five," she agreed. "I need to return to Amaranthine."

Alistair stilled, then pulled back to look up at her. "I thought as much."

"We've only had the one dream, so maybe it isn't a Blight," she rushed on, not really believing her words. She could tell, via their connection, that Alistair didn't, either. "But we need more Grey Wardens. Ferelden is not as strong as it should be, neither the army nor the order. I have to do something about that."

He blew out a breath, resigned. "I know. I won't argue with you. If there's another archdemon waiting to make itself known…" His arms tightened around her.

"I've already spoken to Fiona. She's agreed to be my second."

"So you're going to steal both my wife _and_ my mother away?" His eyes narrowed. "You are truly evil, woman."

"I'm leaving you Zevran and Oghren."

"Oh, that's quite the trade. How lucky I am." Alistair chuckled and leaned his forehead against her cheek.

"Fiona wanted to stay on in Denerim, but…she's concerned about the complications that might arise from her presence," Bryn said. "Have you decided if you're going to make it public, yet?"

Alistair took a deep breath. "I think…I think we'll keep her identity a secret, for now. There's only so much the country can take before it starts to bow, and that's one thing we can avoid adding to the accumulating burden. I'm glad she'll be with you."

"I'll miss you," Bryn whispered, pressing her lips to his forehead.

"And I you, my Queen." His voice was ragged. "Promise me you'll be careful. Promise me you'll come back to me."

"Of course I will," she said, letting a sad smile curve her lips as she looked down at him. "This is where I belong. I'll never stray far from your side, Alistair, and never for long."

"You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that. I don't think anyone wants me ruling this country alone," he said, returning her grin. "Now, Bryn Theirin, I believe your five minutes are up."

A startled laugh escaped her lips as he launched to his feet and strode to the bedroom. She wrapped her arms around his neck, revelling in the love flowing between them. She sent a quick thank you to the Maker that in this world of darkness, pain, and uncertainty, she'd found the one person who completed her so absolutely.

Life didn't get much better than that.


End file.
